Arising
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Belle stutters, "The devil's 'right-hand man?" "I played both sides of the fence," Gold admits. "Whatever suited my purpose. Right up until I died." Going out on a limb with the big questions: what happened to Belle, why Gold framed MM, who wrote the storybook, Rumple's relationship with Regina. I'm taking a whack at it all. . . except Gold's first name.
1. Chapter 1

**Arising**

**Chapter 1: Memorial Day**

* * *

**A/N. This is a follow-up to my story "Unbroken" and a companion piece to "Saved by Zero" (which is a follow-up to "Bae's Day" and "Bae's Day 2011"). Reading "Unbroken" first should help to clarify some references here. As always, thanks to everyone who reads this story and especially everyone who comments upon it. Ownership of _Once Upon a Time_ belongs to Kitsis & Horowitz and the series' amazing writers and actors and not me, because most of the time, the Universe knows what it's doing. But Gunnora and Ranulf are mine.**

**I want to use Gold's first name here, to show the developing relationship between him, Archie and Mother Superior, but since we don't know what it is, I'm using ****. We've been promised a name will be revealed in Season 2 (or as Rumple would say, "I want his name! We had a deal! I need his name!") so when that happens, I'll fill in the blanks. (If I were to take a wild guess at his name, though, I'd guess. . . Cain.)**

* * *

If the _Storybrooke Daily Mirror_ still existed, perhaps its headline for today would be "Arising from the Ashes," and a small column on page two or three would report something along the lines of "Prominent Citizen Recovers from Vicious Assault." For although its citizens really don't need this information—gossip having already spread the news—they do need the encouragement, as they tackle the work of rebuilding their community, both physically and emotionally, in this second month in the year 1 AR (After Regina).

And the information is encouraging—to some citizens, anyway. Those who do not agree it's a good thing that Mr. Gold has awakened from his coma and is expected to make a full recovery are either preparing, along with James and Snow, to return to the land they call home, just as soon as they have assisted their neighbors in the rebuilding. . .

Or they fear that Gold's recovery means a return to his money-grubbing, power-grabbing ways. A few citizens speculate that if he's permitted to return to power—as though it's possible to stop him—they will have a Regina II on their hands, only worse.

These people have not met Belle.

Nor have they seen the look in Gold's eyes when she walks into his makeshift hospital room in the convent, when she holds his hand as he undergoes treatment, when she greets him with a kiss as he awakes, when she fires up his imagination as she reports James' plans for the future.

It's that look that worries Belle.

She's unusually silent as she joins Mother Superior and Sister Bernadette in the dining room for breakfast. Normally she's a fount of questions and observations; there's so much to learn about this land, her active presence in it being less than three months old. She's a woman in love, not only with a man but with a world, and discoveries, even unpleasant ones, excite her. But today she swirls her spoon in her oatmeal and leans on one arm, the burdens of her mind heavy. Her breakfast companions give her space.

At last she pushes the bowl away and addresses them. "Archie says he's doing fine physically, but he seems so dispirited."

The nuns understand that by "he" she is referring to Gold. Bernadette offers, "A fight like that one is bound to take an emotional toll. It killed twenty-three of us and destroyed half the town."

"Remember, too," Mother Superior urges, "we old war horses take a bit longer to heal." She smiles wryly.

Belle raises her eyebrows. She hasn't thought of Rumplestiltskin as old, not in body, and certainly not in spirit. Even in his human form, even when he had to walk with a cane, he seemed far from aged. She calculates hastily—if, as she's been told, she was locked away in Regina's secret dungeon for twenty-eight years, her present age is 53. She echoes, "'Old war horses'! Mother Superior, you must be exaggerating. I wouldn't imagine you to be more than 35, and **** in his mid-fifties, at most."

Mother Superior sips her coffee before answering. "My years here and in the old land combined, I'm about 205 years old, I think. And Rumplestiltskin is approaching 300." She gives Belle a moment to accept this shocking information. "Remember, Belle, he and Bernadette and I are not—_were_ not human until very recently."

Bernadette shrugs. "I'm just a baby, really. I turned 144 last month."

Belle can't help but burst out in a laugh, and Bernadette is pleased. But then Belle grows serious again. "It's the way he looks at me. . . . I love him, Mother Superior, but I don't know if I can be with him. I wonder if it's good for us to be together."

"What are you talking about?" Bernadette objects. "He adores you."

Mother Superior nods. "He needs you, Belle. I've known him a long time, both as Rumplestiltskin and as **** Gold, and I've never seen him as happy as he is when he's with you. You bring him a new life."

"I know he loves me, and that will never change. But when he looks at me, it's with guilt in his eyes. I'm a constant reminder of the mistakes he's made. It's not good for him, and it's certainly not good for me."

"It's right that he should feel guilt," Mother Superior answers gently. "He's done horrible things, often in full realization of the consequences. If he doesn't admit that, he can never redeem himself. But there's nothing so horrible that God can't forgive it. Rumplestiltskin's soul will be restored, Belle; all he has to do is ask."

"He needs human forgiveness too. Otherwise he'll continue to push himself away from everyone. If I'm going to be with him, I need to understand him, and he needs to understand me, and words aren't enough for that. I've tried telling him what those twenty-eight years in Regina's dungeon did to me, but I just can't bring myself to tell him the whole truth, just as he can't bring himself to tell me about his past. We're afraid of hurting each other again, I guess."

"Confession is God's gift to us. It enables us to face the truth and forgive ourselves. I can arrange for a priest to come and hear your confession, Belle, but to be honest, I don't think Rumplestiltskin is ready to give his."

"No," Belle admits. "Not until he knows for sure I've forgiven him. Until he_ feels_ I've forgiven him. I tell him and tell him, but he doesn't feel it. He won't let go, and the guilt will drive me away from him." She raises her face hopefully. "Mother Superior, I know you intend to give up your magic, but do you suppose God would forgive you if you used it one last time, for the sake of love?"

Mother Superior frowns. "The healing Rumplestiltskin needs must come from God, not from magic."

"But it has to start with me." Belle grasps the nun's hands. "Please, Mother Superior, give us this chance. It may be the only way he and I can find peace."

Mother Superior hesitates, and Sister Bernadette nearly drops her spoon, for she can't recall a time that her boss ever reversed a decision.

Belle continues, "Please, Mother Superior, our love depends on this. Just as you helped me before, I know you can help me now. Show us the past."

After a long silence, Mother Superior offers this: "I'll pray about it."

* * *

Mother Superior pauses on the threshold of the room in which Gold is recuperating. She's brought tea, which she knows will please him, and a Bible, which she's not sure will, but she knows it can help him. Inside the bedroom, Dr. Hopper is completing an examination of his patient; Mother Superior turns away to give them privacy, but Hopper's words give her pause.

"Mr. Gold, I'm going to be frank with you. Your body's healing, but you're not helping it much. You're not eating enough, and you're putting minimal effort into your physical therapy. Uh uh, don't argue with me. I have the proof right here." Archie taps a medical chart. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you're lazy. But I do know you better, so I say, I think you don't really want to recover."

"That's ridi—"

"There's a lovely garden in the back of the convent. Vegetables and flowers both. Do you know that, Mr. Gold? I doubt if you do, because I doubt if you've been out there. There's a swing on the front porch; did you know that? The porch is just a few yards from this room, but have you been out there to sit and enjoy the fresh air and the sun? Sunlight contains lithium, and lithium produces a sense of well-being in the human body. But you wouldn't know that, would you, Mr. Gold, because you won't get up off your ass and go outside. We've brought you a wheelchair; you won't use it. All right, maybe it's a matter of pride, so we brought you your cane, but you won't leave this room, will you?"

Archie slaps the chart against the bedpost, sending a metallic ring throughout the room. "Don't give me pain as an excuse. I've seen you walk from one end of this town to the other in the pouring rain, gritting your teeth because your knee couldn't take the punishment, but you did it because it suited your purpose. I know how strong your will is, Mr. Gold. So I'm saying to you now, you just don't want to heal. In fact, I think you've got it in mind to hasten your own demise. Now, why that is, I have a few guesses, but I can't do any more for you until you start talking to me."

He waits, but Gold says nothing. Around the open door, Mother Superior can see the patient, propped up in bed, returning Hopper's anger glare for glare, but otherwise motionless.

Archie collects his medical instruments and snaps his bag shut. "No more painkillers. I'll be back when they tell me you've got up off your ass." He starts to leave, but throws a parting shot: "Like the guy in the movie says, 'Either get busy living or get busy dying.' Let me know which one you decide it's gonna be so I won't waste my time. I've got patients who want to get well."

Archie pushes through the doorway, offering Mother Superior a wink and a whisper. "Let's see if a little tough love does the old buzzard any good."

* * *

Bernadette has an idea. It's been five weeks since he awoke, yet no one besides Belle has come to visit Mr. Gold. Visitors, she believes, would do him good, so she walks through the town, extending invitations.

Snow takes her aside, admitting that she and James have talked about visiting Gold, but with the rebuilding, and with re-establishing their own family, they've just been so. . . and then Snow sighs and admits the truth. "It's not that we haven't thought about him, and it's not that we don't appreciate what he did in the war, but, Bernie, he's Rumplestiltskin. A lot of us feel that he's the cause of all our troubles. You can't say we're wrong to feel that way."

Bernadette shrugs her shoulders. It's the truth.

"We're not ready to make nice yet. With Regina it's a little easier, because she's so different now. She doesn't remember the past, so she's like a child now, and that makes it easier to forgive her. Besides, _he _could see the future: he must've known the damage he was causing. Do you understand, Bernie?"

Bernadette must agree. She too has found it easier to accept Regina, who now calls herself Gina, whose memories have been wiped clean, who thinks she is 16 again and has been asking for her father and her favorite steed. When Regina's physical health permits, she will move in with a foster family in Storybrooke. She will attend high school, perhaps college. She will have a new life. Her past will remain a secret from her.

But Rumplestiltskin remembers his crimes, every single one of them, and that makes it harder for his neighbors to forget his past. Perhaps, with his actions during the war, he has earned back some respect, even begrudging admiration, but he has not earned forgiveness.

For one thing, he's never asked for it.

So Snow and James do not come to the convent, nor Ruby, who is immersed in grief for Granny, who perished in the war; nor August, nor Jefferson, nor anyone else. Only Emma and Henry come, and they come for Mr. Gold's sake, for they never knew Rumplestiltskin.

Emma stands beside the patient's bed, her hands stuffed into her jeans pockets, shifting from foot to foot. Gold understands; her discomfort is not so much with him as with the situation; it makes her uncomfortable to see him incapacitated. Henry brings a sack of gumdrops and a load of questions about Fairytale Land. Without hesitation the boy wiggles a seat for himself onto Gold's bed and launches into a nonstop monologue. He pauses long enough to remember his manners: "So how are you doin', Mr. Gold?"

Before the patient can answer, Henry has another question. "Or do you want us to call you Rumplestiltskin?" And that sets off another train of questions.

Emma shrugs her shoulders apologetically, but Gold smiles and accepts a gumdrop. Since Henry doesn't seem ready to slow down anytime soon, Emma strikes up a conversation with Belle. They are war buddies now; someday, they will become friends.

When Henry finally takes a breath, Emma says, "Well, we'd better be getting back. There's still a lot of work to do. But uh, I have a couple of favors to ask, if you don't mind. I mean, I know I still owe you one."

Gold sits up a little straighter. "I think not, Ms. Swan. I consider that favor paid when you. . . provided me accommodations."

She laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, that was weird. Well, speaking of which, sort of, I have this magic now and I don't know anything about using it. Not sure I want to."

"Which is why it belongs with you."

"Yeah, well, you did say you'd teach me how to use it."

Gold looks down at his hands. "I did, yes, but you would be better served if Mother Superior teaches you."

Emma purses her lips. "So you're backing out of our deal?"

He sputters, "No, no, but there's a better teacher for you than me."

She crosses her arms and glares down at him. "You're backing out of our deal. 'That's not what I do, Ms. Swan.' Didn't you say that to me? 'Contracts are the backbone of our society.' Something like that. You're backing out. Huh!"

Belle has to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing aloud.

Flustered, Gold raises his hands in surrender. "Very well, Ms. Swan, I'll honor our agreement."

Emma drops her glare and unfolds her arms. "Fine. Soon as you're up and about, we'll start. Now here's the other thing: we'll be done with the clean up in another couple of weeks, and so we need to rebuild, right? A lot of our buildings got destroyed. We could just put everything back the way it was, but we figure, maybe we need to plan for the future. Storybrooke could grow now, bring in new business, even tourists. Do we want to grow, that's the first thing we need to figure out, and if we do, how can we do it smart? We need a city planner, and I hear you had that job before. So, once we start to reorganize the town government, a lot of us figure you're the best candidate for the position. Seems like you did a pretty good job the first time around."

"Ms. Swan, I believe you're trying to manipulate me with flattery."

"OK. Yeah, sure, flattery doesn't work with you. So how about plain old bribery?" She winks at Belle. "Try this on for size: the **** Gold Public Library. Or Rumplestiltskin Public Library, if you like that better."

Gold's face darkens. "An amusing little joke. "

"What—no—no joke. I mean it."

"Public buildings are named for those a town wishes to honor. People who should be remembered." He draws in a deep breath, then dismisses his guests, politely. "Thank you for visiting, Sheriff. And thank you for the candy, Henry. Now if you'll excuse me, I find I'm rather tired."

Belle and Emma exchange a helpless glance. As she escorts Emma and Henry to the porch, Belle hugs them and begs them to return soon. The visit helped, she's sure of it, despite the seeming outcome.

When she returns to his room, she finds he's turned to the wall. He won't talk to her. When she brings his lunch, he pretends to be asleep.

* * *

It's Memorial Day, according to the calendar. Storybrooke never celebrated that particular holiday: since for 28 years, nobody in Storybrooke remembered the past, Memorial Day lacked meaning for them.

This year is a little different. While there will be no parades or speeches, and the work of cleaning up after the destruction of the war will continue today, James has called for five minutes of silent reflection at noon to remember—everything. Not just the people they've lost in the war, but the lives they've regained by the breaking of the curse. Mother Superior thinks five minutes is much too short a time for that task, but it's a beginning. Instinctively, the community, except for Belle and Clark, who have remained at the convent to tend the wounded, comes together at the library.

James, Henry, Emma and Snow stand at the entrance to the library. They are a family in progress. Like their neighbors, they don't know what the future holds: Emma and Henry have indicated their preference for remaining in Storybrooke, while James and Snow want to return to Fairytale Land. Not even Rumplestiltskin can predict whether this family will remain together, but for now, they are united. And for now, James has assumed a de facto leadership role. Quietly, he thanks the crowd for coming and for their hard work in restoring the town. He assures them things are better and will continue to improve. Some of the folks believe him; others are too numb to imagine a future. Then the clock tolls twelve and James asks for remembrance.

Several of the townsfolk come to Mother Superior's side. She takes their hands and offers a whispered prayer, asking for strength, forgiveness and God's peace. As they echo her "amen," her hands start to shake. No, they're tingling—with magic.

The memorial service concluded, the townsfolk disperse, putting back on their work gloves, picking up their shovels and hammers.

And Mother Superior knows she must get to work too. She's had her answer.

* * *

A flicker of hope lights his eyes for the first time since the war. He promptly squelches it, but not in time: they've both seen it. Belle and Mother Superior share a small smile: Rumplestiltskin thinks this can work, and who knows magic better than Rumplestiltskin?

"You don't know what you're asking, Belle."

She seizes his hands. "I have to understand, and you won't tell me. And you have to understand what happened to me."

"We can't change what's already happened. You must realize that."

"But we can change the now."

He stares hard at her, but he can't stare her down. "I've done unspeakable things."

"There's nothing you can show me that will make me stop loving you." She has tried to imagine the worst he could be capable of, but she can't imagine herself ever hating him. She gives his hands a shake as if to wake him up. "But this guilt between us will drive me away. You won't talk to me, you won't talk to Archie. So _show_ me and let me understand."

He relents a little. "Tomorrow. I'm tired."

"Today."

"Are you sure, Belle? Are you completely sure?"

She realizes what he's asking is "_Are you sure you can love me despite the truth?" _She tucks her face into his shoulder. "I'm sure."

He kisses the top of her head. "All right."

"Archie's waiting in the garden." Belle stands and brings forward a wheelchair. He shakes his head at it in disgust and grabs his old familiar cane, and with her arm supporting him, he leaves his bedroom for the first time since he nearly died.


	2. Chapter 2

**Arising**

**Chapter 2: Belle**

* * *

"What's Hopper doing here?"

Gold has shaken off Belle's arm and stands before the umbrellaed table straight and tall, holding his cane as if it's a fashion piece rather than a crutch. But his face is white with pain and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth have deepened. Whether it's physical pain or emotional, he won't say.

The good doctor snaps right back at him. "You trust me with your physical health. Why won't you trust me with your psychological health? After all, it's my expertise."

"I agreed to allow the Reul Ghorm in on this because we need her magic," Gold answers. "And that's the _only_ reason. A fourth party was not included in the agreement."

"I need him," Mother Superior says. "What you're asking me to do"—she includes Gold in the "you," despite the fact that the idea is Belle's exclusively—"will be difficult, at best. We're about to uncover memories of events that changed your lives, some of them very painful. I'm no psychiatrist, but I do know that sometimes the brain suppresses memories as a survival mechanism. It would be wrong for someone who knows nothing about psychology to open those memories. I'm sorry, but I won't attempt this without Archie."

"I take the Hippocratic Oath very seriously, Mr. Gold," Hopper softens his voice. "Nothing that may be revealed here will go beyond this garden."

That Hopper doesn't mention the fact that Gold once before sought his counsel, Gold takes note of. But there is a vast difference between a conversation, in which words can be chosen with care and questions can be avoided, and the thing that Belle has proposed they do now. Gold's expression in answer to Mother Superior could freeze mercury.

"I propose a ground rule: the owner of the memories decides which memories we open and which ones we walk away from. And the owner has the right to close the memory at any point," Archie suggests. "Of course, if anything comes up that you'd like to talk to me about in private, I'll be glad to stay as long as you like after this session." He smiles at the nun. "You too, Mother Superior. One more ground rule: no lies, no manipulation of the memories. That would defeat the purpose."

Gold's body shifts; he's about to walk away. But Belle catches his eye and he can feel the desperation boiling in her blood; if he walks away from this request of hers, he walks away from her.

It gives him pause.

"Please," is all she says, but her voice is raw.

The word works its magic. He withdraws a chair from the table and stands behind it. Belle recognizes that the chair is intended for her, so she seats herself. He assists her with pushing the chair in before seating himself.

Belle looks around, admiring the setting: they are in the heart of the garden, beneath a pair of pear trees. Before them is the flower garden, dotted with marigolds, snapdragons and daffodils; behind them, the vegetable garden, where freshly planted tomatoes, peppers, melons and squash are taking hold of the damp earth. The land smells brand new; she, in the sundress and sandals she bought in a shopping spree with Bernie, feels brand new too. She's had a complete physical, affirming her good health despite her imprisonment, and she's started meeting twice a week with Hopper, just to talk things over.

Gold watches the pair seated across from him. Archie is dressed as though he's just come off the golf course, though he's never played a round in his life: he wants to set a casual tone to make his companions in this endeavor comfortable, as their success depends upon it.

The nun wears her favorite gardening outfit: faded jeans and a plaid shirt. The cross she has worn every day of her human life reflects the sunlight.

Gold, having complained vigorously about the hospital gown he found himself in when he first awoke from the coma, has dressed in a starched white shirt, tie and black trousers. The absence of a dress jacket is his one concession to the "dress for comfort" edict.

The nun pours iced tea for her guests and passes around a plate of snickerdoodles, Bernadette's specialty. Belle takes one and comments that after 28 years of flavorless food, her taste buds are just beginning to awaken—and then she glances sideways at Gold and ducks her head. He's got that guilty look again: her imprisonment is his fault.

She sets the cookie down and folds her hands.

"Shall we begin?" Mother Superior suggests. Her hands, lying idle on the tabletop, start to shake; through the metal table, Gold can feel the vibrations. He leans forward involuntarily; although his body is human, some part of his brain still reacts to the magic hovering in the air. "I may need help," the nun informs Gold. "This is a higher level of magic than I normally dealt with."

He nods. "We'll figure it out."

Belle appreciates the "we." She clutches Gold's hand; through her grip, he reads her confidence and trust. Despite her long imprisonment, she's still a woman of faith and she'll gladly loan him some of hers, if he'll only take it. "Please, let's start with me."

Gold's mouth tightens: she has shown herself the braver of the two.

She sets her hand on his, as if she has heard his thought. "I'm hoping that if you can see what happened to me, you'll understand: it's not the pain I remember; it's the love."

Mother Superior—the Reul Ghorm now—passes her hand through the summer air and a wand appears, held gently in her fingers. She taps the center of the table and a blue crystal ball appears. Caught off guard, Gold cracks a smile: it's the same crystal ball he brought back from Oz. The Reul Ghorm whispers some ancient words that only Gold can translate, and a mist develops inside the ball. The mist becomes a haze. "Set your hand on the crystal ball, Belle," the fairy instructs. "Close your eyes, breathe deeply, open your mind and your heart; let the magic in."

Belle settles more comfortably in her chair, then does as the fairy asks. For several long minutes the haze swirls in the crystal ball, changing colors: purple, then blue, then green, then yellow, then pink, then turquoise. The haze settles on this last color and continues to swirl, faster and faster, and as the four watch, the haze leaks from the crystal ball and swirls above the table like a quiet miniature cyclone.

Gold studies Belle's face. He's watched her sleeping, many times, when she lived in the Dark Castle, but he's never seen her face so relaxed, even in the depth of a happy dream.

"I'll need some help with this next spell," the Reul Ghorm says, and Gold gives her the correct phrasing.

The cyclone rises, swirls above their heads, its tendrils unfurling. It fills the sky, then fills the garden, and they are caught in it, but it sedates them at the same time it sharpens their senses. Belle sighs. The contentment in her sigh gives the magic permission to continue. Although he remains seated, still clutching Belle's hand with one hand and his cane with the other, Gold has the sensation of being lifted and moved, weightless, timeless. It's similar to the sensations he used to have when magic transported him from place to place, except it's quieter, gentler—and still turquoise.

He feels a stopping sensation as Belle whispers, "Here."

The haze withdraws.

He's hovering in one place. He looks down. "We don't need to whisper, Belle. They can't hear us; we're here only in spirit."

* * *

_They're in a spacious, well-appointed bedroom. The four-poster bed is much too large for its occupant, a nightgowned girl of about five years, whose dark hair is decorated with turquoise ribbons. She has filled her bed, as little girls do, with stuffed animals—but as little girls in Fairytale Land seldom do, she has also filled her bed with tin soldiers, and it's these she is playing with. She's lined up her soldiers on either side of her legs; her knees are mountains they must cross before the war can begin. She calls one of her soldiers Alexander and she pretends he rides a black stallion she calls Bucephalus. Her Alexander leads his troops stealthily up the mountain and they peer down on the enemy, snoring beside a campfire in the valley of her blankets. _

_Some sound beyond her balcony interrupts the girl's play, and she crawls out of bed, still holding Alexander. She patters to the glass door separating the balcony from her bedroom; the door is half-open to allow in the summer breeze. Without hesitation she trots onto the balcony. She leans against the railing, looking down—_

_And Gold wants to grab her, because the wooden bars are too far apart; a child could slip right through—and does. With a short shriek the girl tumbles into the night, her arms and legs pumping as though she's swimming._

_And she drops into the arms of a gold-skinned imp, who opens his mouth in surprise, revealing rotten teeth._

_The girl smiles up at him and snuggles against his chest until another man, this one dressed in a courtier's garb, runs up and snatches her away, cursing at the imp._

* * *

Sharing a single thought, Belle and Gold ask simultaneously, "That was you?" Gold adds, "Your nanny had summoned me; she wanted a youth potion." Belle adds, "I remembered I was flying, until a sparkly man caught me and cuddled me." All four of the travelers share a thought: true love works in mysterious ways.

"Go on," Belle says, and the haze settles on them again. "Here." When it clears, they find themselves in a formal dining room. Sitting at the table are six military officers in their finery—plus one girl of about eighteen, also in finery. Pacing at the head of the table is Maurice, younger and thinner than Gold remembers him, but Maurice nonetheless, and no more confident in his bearing then as he was when Rumplestiltskin first met him.

* * *

"_May I suggest, Milord, that the women and children of this court be sent immediately to the Northern Highlands. King Gladwin will provide refuge," the eldest of the officers says. He adds with a sideways glance at the girl beside him, "All of the women."_

"_I'm staying," she objects. "I'm needed here."_

"_She has the finest military mind in the land," another courtier says, and a third adds, "She's our best chance of winning."_

_But a fourth man returns to the original complaint: "She's a woman. A slip of one, at that."_

_Maurice is torn. _

"_Papa, look," Belle rises and carries a map to him. "We could send troops through this pass. They can come up behind the ogres here. You see, we can attack them from the front and the rear at once."_

_Maurice forgets about sending his daughter away. He and Belle bow their heads over the map and talk in excited voices. Then Maurice remembers the earlier suggestion and lifts his head long enough to tell a servant, "Send the women and children away." _

"_Come, Milady, I'll help you pack," the servant says._

"_Belle stays."_

* * *

From his left, Belle remarks, "I've always felt fortunate that I was appreciated for my skills, not my skirts. Because of that, I made a difference in my realm."

"You've made a difference in Storybrooke, too," Gold says.

Belle commands the magic, "Move on." The haze sweeps them along again, to a half-demolished throne room that Gold remembers.

* * *

** "_My price is her."_**

* * *

"It was my choice," Belle says, "and I've never regretted it."

* * *

**"_My room?!"_**

* * *

"Not even then."

* * *

**"_Was there a son?"_**

* * *

Gold says, "His name was Baelfire. I should have told you then, Belle. I'm sorry."

* * *

**"_I expect I'll never see you again."_**

* * *

Belle says, "I didn't understand then why you let me leave. I do now."

* * *

**"_Did my carriage splash you?"_**

* * *

Gold moans, "I should have told you. I should have warned you about her. I should have given you a charm to protect you against her—"

"But then I wouldn't have come back."

* * *

**"_There's nothing more to tell, really."_**

* * *

"You broke our deal, Rumplestiltskin."

"I should have—"

"Yes, you should have."

"But I will."

* * *

**"_Why did you come back?"_**

* * *

Belle moans, "Oh, if I'd only said what I meant!"

Gold moans, "If I'd only told you why—"

* * *

**"_Kiss me again. It's working!"_**

* * *

"I should have asked. It never even occurred to me that if you became human again you'd lose your magic. I thought I was breaking a curse."

"I should have understood what you were trying to do, and why. How could I think it was a trick? The kiss itself was proof."

* * *

**"_You turned her against me!"_**

* * *

"I thought madness had overtaken you—yelling at a mirror. But I understand now, and I'm sorry, so sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I let the Dark One take control of my judgment. You were right, Belle: I was a coward. Afraid of losing my magic."

"Not any more."

"No, not any more."

* * *

**"_My power means more to me than you."_**

* * *

"Was that the truth, Rumplestiltskin? I know you loved me then, but you pushed me away. Why didn't you let me stay—and talk to me?"

Gold lowers his head.

"Let me understand."

"I will. This time, I'll show you the truth."

* * *

**"_All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup."_**

* * *

Belle says in amazement, "You kept the cup. The curse took your memories away, but you kept the cup."

"Love is more powerful than any curse."

"Move on," Belle orders, and the haze takes them to an orchard, with Maurice's estate in the distance.

* * *

_A foot-sore Belle, her skirts torn, her skin scratched and sunburned, leans against a pear tree; she reaches up for a pear, then slumps to the ground and eats. She's worn, but the fire in her eyes proves she's not beaten. The pear and the shade revive her._

_She hears something; she clambers to her feet and looks around, then she smiles, calls out and waves: "Gunnora!" _

_A middle-aged woman carrying a pear-filled basket emerges from the trees. "Milady?" Then, assured, she drops the basket and runs as fast as her seven petticoats will allow. "Milady Belle! Milady Belle!" She's sobbing and laughing as she seizes Belle and envelopes her. "Milady, Milady," she says over and over, stroking Belle's hair and face. "Oh my sweet child, it's been so long."_

"_I'm home to stay, Gunnora," Belle sighs. As if to prove the point, she removes her worn shoes. _

_The nanny holds her at arm's length to examine her. "What's happened to you?" Her faces blanches. "Did he—did that monster—"_

"_No, no, I'm just a little worse for wear. I walked from the Dark Mountains. It took me nine days. But a tankard of mead and a bowl of Cook's elk stew will revive me."_

_The nanny glances toward the castle. She's contemplating, and then she decides. "You're coming home with me." She links her arm through Belle's and picks up Belle's shoes. She's forgotten completely about her fruit basket. "I married four months ago—your father's Chief Liveryman. Your father granted us a small house on the grounds." _

"_I'm so happy for you, Gunnora." Belle squeezes her nanny's hand as they walk. _

"_And I'm so happy to see you again. I've worried, every moment you've been gone. We heard terrible, terrible things—well, of course, there have always been horrible stories about that beast; no one speaks well of him. And after he took you—"_

"_He didn't 'take' me. I chose to go with him."_

"_Oh my sweet child, you may think that, but I'm sure it's a spell he's cast on you so you couldn't tell us the truth."_

_Belle stops in her tracks, her hands on her hips, her eyes snapping. "What are you saying, Gunnora?"_

"_Why, everyone knows what a monster he is. There have always been stories; in the village, they call him 'He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken' because we know, if you say his name aloud, he will hear you and appear." Gunnora peers at her closely. "Some call him 'The Baby Eater.'"_

"_That's ridiculous! What a horrid thing to say! I lived with him nearly a year and I know him to be gentle and considerate, one who cares about children when their parents do not."_

"_Then he did not__—_forgive me, Milady, but there were stories. A visiting queen reported to us that he_—t_hat unseemly things had been done to you."

"_Never!" Belle hisses. "Rumplestiltskin is a gentleman, a man of honor. His treatment of me would put my father's courtiers to shame. Who told such tales? Who is this 'visiting queen'?"_

"_One who would know, we thought; one whose powers allow her to see through walls. She rules a kingdom that borders the Dark Mountains and has encountered. . . him. . . many times, defeating him each time. Though he's frightfully powerful, her powers match his, and her will is so strong she is able to resist his tricks. She's an elegant lady, Belle; you would be much impressed by her, as we were. A thoughtful and knowledgeable lady, though a bit sad, having lost her husband, King Leopold, most tragically."_

_Belle glares. "Regina!"_

"_Yes, that's Her Majesty's name. She had heard of your agreement with the monster, and she came to warn your father. Of course your father was dreadfully alarmed, but as she said, once one has made a deal with the monster, there's no breaking it. Had your father demanded your return, Her Majesty said, the monster would destroy the entire duchy. Your mother was so distraught she fell ill—" Gunnora pauses, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Milady; she didn't recover."_

_Belle covers her face with her hands. She allows Gunnora to lead her to the cottage near the stables. The nanny fusses over her as she grieves. Hours pass, and finally Belle collects herself, washes her face and brushes her hair. "I must see Father." And then she begins to cry again, this time not for her own loss but for her father's. _

"_Stay here the night, my sweet child," the nanny coos. "You will sleep in my bed. Ranulf will sleep in the hayloft. Don't object, Belle; he will consider it an honor. He does not believe, any more than I do—" and then she bites her lip._

_Belle nods. "I must see Father as soon as possible, but I need to be strong for him. I'm sure he's suffering."_

"_Yes, he did suffer horribly. But it's been half a year since your mother's passing; he's better now." Gunnora pours a cup of tea for Belle, then sits beside her at the kitchen table. The nanny says cautiously, "Her Majesty was a great comfort to him."_

_Belle coughs in mid-sip. "What? What are you saying, Gunnora? Is that witch here? In my mother's home?"_

"_She's an honored guest of the court, as any visiting royal would be."_

"_Her relationship with my father?" Belle's voice creeps higher._

"_Perfectly respectable, let me assure you, Milady." Gunnora stirs her tea, lost in thought. "I must tell you something, Lady Belle—you know it's out of love for you. You must not stay. The wagging tongues have murdered your reputation. Your father—he still loves you, of course—but he has been ridiculed; he is humiliated; and there are those who would use this opportunity to undo him. You endanger him as well as yourself if you stay. This can be your home no longer."_

_Belle struggles with words. "What—why? What are they saying?"_

"_Milady, I love you too much to repeat such vile things. Your father has always had his enemies; many call him weak for having sought out the monster. A stronger leader would have conquered the ogres in the first year of the war, they say. Your return would finish him, and I fear what they would do to you."_

"_I don't care two snaps for their opinion." Belle raises her chin. _

_The nanny lowers her voice. "Some have more in mind for you than just talk. Some believe you are the beast's slave; they will say you've come to do his bidding. I fear for your life, Milady." Gunnora rises and goes to a cupboard, where she unshelves a ceramic jar. She reaches inside, withdrawing a fat purse. She returns to the table and sets the purse beside Belle's teacup. "Please take this. You'll need money to travel. I'm so sorry, Milady; you were born noble, but you must live in exile now, as a poor relation. Ranulf will purchase passage for you on a ship. I urge you to go to the land of my birth; my sister lives there still and will give you a home and—I'm sorry, Milady—work as a seamstress, perhaps, or—forgive me—a nanny. But you'll be safe."_

"_I—I need to think."_

"_Here," the nanny helps her to stand and leads her to the cottage's only other room, a bedroom. "Rest a while. I'll prepare dinner."_

_Belle lies down on the rope bed. She's distraught, but her body is so weary, she can't think clearly. She cries herself to sleep, whispering to herself, "Not a monster. A gentleman."_

* * *

From their celestial perch, Gold reaches out to Belle, and she to him. Neither can speak. The Blue Fairy casts a glance at them, then lowers her eyes. Archie asks, "Are you all right, Belle? Should we move on?"

"Not yet," Belle says. "There's more."

The young Belle—only twenty-four, Gold realizes; somehow she seemed older than that, in some ways, more mature than he was, in those days—the young Belle twitches in her sleep, and Gold wants both to turn away, out of respect for her privacy, and to take her nightmare away with a wave of his hand. He forms the words of a peace-granting spell in his mind and makes a sideways motion of his hand, as though erasing a slate, but he has no magic. The best he can do is to place a comforting arm about his Belle's shoulders.

* * *

_Night has fallen. Ranulf has returned to his home and Gunnora serves his dinner as she explains the situation. They have only just broken bread when light pours through their windows and rough voices shout at them. "Liveryman! Bring the lady out, now!" _

_Gunnora hides beneath the kitchen table as Ranulf seizes the nearest weapon—a broom. He bars the door. Harness jingles, horses stamp their feet, and blinding lantern light pours through the windows as the men continue to shout threats. A rock shatters the glass; the door is kicked repeatedly. "We'll set fire! Send her out now!"_

_Rubbing her eyes, Belle stumbles from the bedroom. "Get down, under the table, Milady!" Ranulf urges, but she won't. She listens to the shouts; she can hear horses at the back of the cottage; she realizes there's no escape. Her military mind tells her that her best hope is to surrender and watch for an opportunity to negotiate or escape. _

_A thud causes the door to shake. A second thud splinters a plank. Belle unbars the door. "Milady!" Ranulf protests, and Gunnora wails. _

"_I'll be all right," Belle says, and she seems to believe it. "These are my father's men. He won't let them harm me." She pulls the door open and walks out._

* * *

Bright light blinds them. The four visitors can't see the abduction, but they can make out some of the shouts.

* * *

_"The monster's whore!" "Watch out, she might have magic!" "You scared of that little girl, Asa? You used to give her pony rides before she could walk!" "Yeah, well, she's a demon now, ain' she?"_

* * *

When the bright lights fade and sunlight returns, they see a black carriage pulled at a canter by four black horses. Gold groans; he knows this carriage.

* * *

_The vehicle rumbles on, its driver whipping the horses._

_Hours later, the horses are near death with their exertion. The driver finally allows the animals to slow to a walk. They need their last bit of strength to pull the carriage up the mountain to an imposing estate, double the size of the Dark Castle. When they reach the gate, the horses are shuddering and foaming. The gate opens without a touch, the carriage rolls inside the yard, and the gate closes again. A footman runs forward to open the carriage door and hand the queen down._

_And then comes the thrashing, hissing, kicking Belle. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she rears back and sends a right upper cut to the queen's jaw. As the queen staggers, and her footman rushes to catch her from falling, the prisoner runs. It's to no purpose, however; Belle is trapped._

_The queen need not give orders: her servants know what to do. Belle is thrown into a dungeon. Light and dark, light and dark, days pass. Belle sleeps fitfully on straw she bunches up into a bed. No one brings her water or food. She takes fever, then chills, and her stomach cramps. She curses and cries until she's too thirsty and worn out to do anything more than to sit in a corner, her arms wrapped around her knees. _

* * *

From their perch, Archie clears his throat repeatedly and the Reul Ghorm weeps quietly.

* * *

_From her corner, young Belle swallows, then tries to shout. "Rumplestiltskin." Her voice is a croak._

* * *

From above, Gold calls back, "Belle!" The older Belle leans against him, reminding him of her presence. "I'm here. I'm all right," she assures him. But Gold's hands work, opening and closing into fists; if he had magic, this dungeon would be blown to bits.

* * *

_Young Belle tries again, but she can't manage to speak. Still, she's been heard. A visitor in black silk and lace appears in the cell with her. The visitor pats her immaculate hair with her manicured fingers, wrinkles her nose in disgust and grunts, "Ewww. My dear, you really need a bath." Then with a harsh laugh she crouches beside the prisoner. She clicks her tongue in mock pity. "Poor baby. Are we hungry, hmm? Thirsty?" _

_Belle glares her answer._

_The queen scowls. "Rude thing! Didn't your mother teach you to answer when your superiors speak to you? Rise, you wretch, and curtsy to your queen!" Regina prods at Belle, but is frustrated by the girl's lack of reaction._

"_So it's our darling Wumple we want, is it?" Regina asks in baby talk. "Well, I am known far and wide for my hospitality, so it's Wumple you shall have." Regina spins in a circle, her skirts flaring, purple lightning flashing from her fingers. When she stops, she clasps her hands in delight. "There! As promised."_

_Ceiling-to-floor mirrors cover the dungeon walls, and in every one of them is a Rumplestiltskin. _

_Belle coughs and rubs dust from her eyes. She looks again to realize she's not seeing multiple Rumplestiltskins; she's seeing different angles of one. He's at his wheel, but he isn't spinning; he's just staring. Lost._

"_Miss him, do we?" Regina sneers. "Well, you'll have the pleasure of watching him, every remaining moment of your life." She folds her arms and, with Belle, watches the mirrors. Finally, bored—for Rumple continues to stare into space—she shrugs. "Whatever did you see in him? He's absolutely hideous." Regina spins on her heel to face Belle. "Or did he enchant you? Was that it?" She runs a hand over her mouth as she considers this idea. "Nooo, it had to have been true love, or the kiss wouldn't have worked." She shrugs again. "Oh well, no accounting for taste, I suppose. Now this is more my type."_

_Right on cue, a young bearded guard appears just beyond the bars of the cell. He carries a tray on which is set a pitcher of water, a glass, and a well-filled plate. Belle can smell it: roast beef, honeyed carrots, potatoes, fresh bread. Belle runs her tongue across her cracked lips as she watches beads of water course down the pitcher. _

"_Delectable, isn't he?" Regina purrs. "And quite good in bed." She glances at Belle. "Blushing, my dear? Oh, that's right; your relationship with Rumple was purely intellectual. But that lust in your eye is unmistakable. What? It's the food you're craving, not my Huntsman? Well, hospitality is the hallmark of every queen. My Huntsman will gladly serve you—provided you show me the courtesy every guest owes." Regina grasps Belle's chin and forces her face up. "Satisfy my curiosity."_

_Belle forms a word but can't speak it: "What?"_

"_Answer a few friendly questions about your former master, and then the water and the food are yours."_

_Belle twists from Regina's grasp. _

"_Let's start with an easy one. What's his game?" Regina paces. "For years now, he's been accumulating odd things, nowhere equal in value to the magic he's bestowed. What's he up to? What is he working on?" She stops and waits. _

_Belle tries to speak._

"_Ah." Regina says. "Of course." She snaps her fingers at the Huntsman in a command; understanding, he pours water and passes the glass through the bars. Regina kneels, presenting the glass to Belle._

_Belle snatches the glass away and drinks, choking and coughing, but she manages to get some of the liquid down. _

"_Better? Can you speak now?" Regina takes the glass away and returns it to her guard._

* * *

Gold's hands clutch uselessly.

* * *

_Regina continues, "Well? What's his plan?"_

_Belle manages, "I don't know."_

_Regina slaps her._

_Belle persists, "He didn't confide in me. He didn't take me along when he made his deals. He didn't show me what he brought back."_

_Regina sneers. "His worthless little pet. I suppose that's believable; my Huntsman shares my bed but not my secrets. All right, then. He must keep records. His spells are much too complicated to remember. Where does he keep his records?"_

"_I don't know."_

_Regina slaps her again. "Are you stupid? You cleaned his rooms. You had access to his entire castle for nearly a year! What rooms did he keep locked? And don't tell me you didn't sneak into them while he was away. Even the most ignorant of maids knows how to pick a lock."_

"_No."_

_Regina seizes her arm and shakes her. "'No' you won't tell me, or 'no' you don't know?"_

"_He trusted me. I didn't violate that trust."_

* * *

Gold says to his Belle, "I never doubted you."

* * *

"_Which rooms did he keep locked?" Regina demands._

"_You can't get into the Dark Castle unless he allows you in," Belle replies._

"_Then you won't mind answering the question!" _

_Belle turns her face to the wall and finds she's leaning against an image of Rumplestiltskin. As she watches, the imp rises from his bench and walks to the windows, the same ones she undraped in the first week of her stay in the Dark Castle. He leans against the panes, searching for something out there._

_Regina watches too, muttering, "The lovesick puppy." She passes through the bars of the cell as though they didn't exist. As she moves past the guard, she commands, "Give her the water, but not the food. We'll keep her alive another day or two."_

_Dark and light, dark and light, more days pass, and Belle watches Rumplestiltskin, talks to his image. She is given water; sometimes the Huntsman slips bread and cheese to her, or a peach or plum. He never speaks to her, and when she tries to question him, he shakes his head in warning. She understands and stops talking._

_Regina returns. "He loves you! That wretched imp has a heart. Who else does he love? What else?"_

_Belle watches the mirrors and says nothing._

_Dark and light, dark and light. Regina returns and yells, "Where did he come from? Does he have family? A brother or sister? Friends? A name, girl! Give me one name and my Huntsman will feed you."_

_Belle watches the mirrors and says nothing. _

"_She doesn't break," Regina mutters to the Huntsman, but Belle hears her and smiles._

_Dark and light, dark and light. Regina returns with a fresh idea. She waves a hand at the mirrors; the images shimmer and bend. "I paid a visit to your lover this morning. Would you like to see?"_

**"_And after her stay here, her 'association' with you, no one would __want her, of course. __Her father shunned her, cut her off, shut her out."_**

**"_So she needs. . . a h-home."_**

**"_He was cruel to her. He locked her in a tower and sent in clerics to __cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying. After a while she threw __herself off the tower. She died."_**

**_ . . . "You should get a new girl."_**

_Regina studies Belle as the girl watches the mirrors. There's a hunger in Regina's eyes that mirrors Belle's physical hunger. Both are starving. As she watches Rumplestiltskin place her cup on a pedestal, Belle breaks._

_Regina gloats._

* * *

"This was the hardest of all," Belle whispers. "Bearing your pain as well as mine."

* * *

_Dark and light, dark and light. "How can he be killed? Don't lie to me; everything can be killed. How can Rumplestiltskin be killed?"_

_Now Belle is deathly afraid. Most of Regina's questions she couldn't answer if she wanted to. She can describe his values, his moods, his habits, his tastes; every article of clothing in his possession, every stick of furniture, every dish, every artifact; she knows how he wakes up in the morning and how he sleeps at night; how he takes his tea and which pieces of music move him. But about his past she knows next to nothing._

_She does, however, know how to kill him._

_She came across the information accidentally, in one of his books. _

* * *

Archie whispers, "Belle, this is too hard; let's move on."

But the older Belle promises, "I'm okay. You'll see. This is a story of love."

Dark and light. And suddenly the Reul Ghorm draws in a deep breath and smiles. "I remember!"

"Yes," Belle says.

* * *

_The Rumplestiltskin in the mirrors is back at his wheel, but still he isn't spinning. He holds the chipped teacup, turning it over and over in his hands._

_The prisoner Belle struggles to her feet and stands on tiptoe, trying to see out the windows high above her cell. She's too weak to stand long, but it's long enough for her to call, "Reul Ghorm! Reul Ghorm!"_

* * *

From her perch above the scene, the Blue Fairy clasps a hand to her mouth and releases a small cry.

* * *

_A blue light appears in one of the windows. It floats down to the straw, grows larger and brighter, and the Reul Ghorm appears. "I'm here, Belle. How can I help you? Shall I take you from here?"_

_The prisoner Belle sighs. "She'd only go after my family. No. I find myself wanting to give in to her. As soon as I do, I'm dead and so is he. Please, Reul Ghorm—if I have no memories of him, she can't steal them. Let me remember only that I loved him, and he loved me."_

"_I understand. Are you sure, Belle, that's what you want?" _

"_I'm sure. She's breaking me."_

"_Belle. . ." The fairy hovers, uncertain, then decides. "Belle, a curse is coming that will destroy this world and sweep us away to another, a world where magic doesn't exist. The curse will take away our memories; every one of us, even I, will forget this world and who we were in it. Rumplestiltskin created that curse and Regina will cast it." She allows Belle a moment to take this information in. _

_Words of denial take shape on Belle's lips, but she refrains from speaking them._

_The Blue Fairy continues, "But Rumplestiltskin also created the means for breaking this curse. The time will come, Belle, when we will awaken and remember who we are, and magic will return. I want you to remember this and be at peace as I take your other memories away, as you requested."_

"_And I'll remember the love?"_

"_I have no magic powerful enough to destroy love," the fairy smiles. "Nor could any curse." The fairy waves her wand._

* * *

"We've seen enough. Go home," Belle commands. The turquoise haze swirls in, wiping the world away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Arising**

**Chapter 3: Rumplestiltskin**

* * *

When the haze lifts, Gold realizes he's still clutching both his cane and Belle's hand. She smiles and gives him a reassuring squeeze. "Regina tried a few more times to interrogate me," she concludes, "but she figured out I had no information for her. She even commented that she knew more about you than I did. After that, she decided my body was worth more to her than my mind, so she ordered the Huntsman to keep me alive as a bargaining chip she could use later. The days all blurred together after that. One night I lay down in the straw to sleep and the next day I woke up in another kind of prison. The Huntsman was gone."

In a low hiss, Gold vows, "I'll curse her name for the rest of this life and any other."

"You have to let it go," Belle insists in alarm. "Or you'll have to let me go. Listen, listen, Rumplestiltskin: I didn't show you all this to make you feel my pain. I was trying to make you feel the power I found in love." She turns to her fellow travelers for help.

"Do you want hate to be the driving emotion in your relationship with Belle?" Archie asks. "Do you want that to be the way she remembers you: vengeful, violent?"

"There's no one for you to take revenge on," Mother Superior adds. "Regina is gone."

"Oh, she's still there, all right," Gold growls. "She's in the room next to mine."

Archie corrects him. "That's not Regina. That's a sixteen-year-old orphan with an innocent soul. To take revenge on her would be as pointless as—"

"As crushing a snail." Gold lets his cane fall.

They give him silence to collect his thoughts. Mother Superior refills everyone's glass, noting as she does so that the ice in the pitcher has not melted. Although their journey seemed long, it has taken less than two hours.

Gold casts a shy glance at Belle. "Forgive me."

She squeezes his hand again. "Always."

"By focusing on Regina, I'm denying my own responsibility. I realize that and I'll try to. . . to think more productively. It's a time-worn pattern with me."

Archie and Mother Superior raise their eyebrows. They're in for an even greater surprise, for next Gold says, "Reul Ghorm, thank you."

"Yes," Belle adds. "I doubt if I'd have survived if not for your help."

Nervously, Mother Superior rubs her hand along her glass. "I—you're welcome. Both of you."

"If you're not too tired, Belle," Gold nods his head toward the crystal ball. "I'm ready to show you the truth."

"I'm not too tired." In fact, she seems energized.

Gold consults each of the others. "Reul Ghorm? Dr. Hopper?"

They nod consent.

"Three hundred years of denial and half-truths," Gold comments as he sets his hand on the crystal. "This may be a long journey."

Together, he and the Blue Fairy recite the spell that summons the mist. The mist becomes a haze, changing colors from purple, to blue, to green, to yellow, to pink, and finally, of course, gold. The fairy and the former imp then recite the spell that carries them into the past. The first leg of this journey ends abruptly: "Stop," Gold orders after a few seconds.

When the haze clears, they are hovering above Gold's bed in the convent. Belle watches Gold as he watches his own comatose body being hooked up to a fresh intravenous drip. In both incarnations, Gold's face remains impassive.

* * *

_Clark gives the drip bag a thump, then, satisfied it's working properly, makes a note on the medical chart hooked to the foot of the bed. He turns as someone enters the room. "Hey, Bashful."_

"_How's it goin', Sneezy?"_

_The visitor—more recently known as Bart Katz, bartender—approaches the bed but stops an arm's length from it. Clark chuckles. "You afraid the bogeyman's gonna get you? He's not getting anybody today—maybe not ever again."_

"_You think he's gonna die, then?"_

_Clark shrugs. "Fifty-fifty. You come to pay your final respects?"_

_Katz snorts. "Yeah, right. I figured I should pay the rent." He pats his shirt pocket as proof. "I'm two days late."_

_Clark chuckles again. "Better watch out. He'll rise up from the grave and shake every last penny out of you. Seriously, is that what you came for?"_

"_Yeah. Well, I'm actually here to pick up Happy. Archie says he can go home today."_

"_Sure. Just make sure he stays off that foot, huh? No golf for another six weeks." _

_Katz comes a little closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. He indicates Gold. "So, guess he won't be going home any time soon."_

"_Just as well. Nobody's come for him."_

"_What about that girl, Belle?"_

"_Well, yeah. Yeah, she's here most days."_

"_What's a pretty young thing like that—"_

"_Yeah. She's not the gold-digger type, so it beats me."_

"_Hey, who do you suppose will get his money when he does kick the bucket?"_

"_Not me, that's for sure."_

"_Me neither. Maybe he's got a secret will somewhere. Gonna leave it all to the Old Farts Society."_

_Clark sniggers. "More like, the Save the Vermin Campaign. Hey, if he kicks off, we'll never have to pay rent again, and I can quit spying on people. Come on, let's get a sandwich." _

_As they leave the room, a ball of red flame appears over the bed. It hovers there a moment, then lowers itself to the floor, and from it emerges a man of middling height and indeterminate age. From his attire—sneakers, jeans, a Bette Davis t-shirt and a Yankees ball cap—one might assume him to be an ordinary laborer, but something about him makes Belle's skin crawl. The Reul Ghorm and Archie instinctively pull back, though of course the visitor can't see them._

"_Rump, old man!" The visitor pokes at the patient's bandaged ribs. "Wake up, dude. Is that any way to greet your company? After I came all this way."_

_The patient's eyes remain closed._

"_Nod if you can hear me then." The visitor snickers. "Course you can hear me. Hey, I like you better this way. I can believe what you're sayin' when your mouth is closed."_

* * *

"Who is that?" Belle whispers to Gold.

"He goes by Mephistopheles."

The Reul Ghorm puts it plainly: "Satan's spawn."

"An old business associate of mine."

Belle bites her lip.

* * *

"_So, quite a tussle you and Mills had." The demon holds out his open hand and a beer appears in it. He pops the top and takes a swig. "Some show. I enjoyed it a hell of a lot. Kept my end of the bargain, too. What's that?" He leans forward as if listening to the patient. "Sure thing, buddy. You're welcome. Anyway, I just dropped by to see if you're about ready yet. I got a sweet place waiting for you Down There." _

_He raises his beer can in a salute. "My new right-hand man. What's that? What do you mean, you're not ready to go? Look at yourself, dude. You're a mess. What? Well, who the hell is Belle and what's she got that we don't?" He chuckles. "I getcha. You want to squash one more Sweet Innocent before you go. Can't blame you a bit, but—What? 'Love'? Did I hear that right? You say you 'love' her? Aw, damnation, man! It's all this dope they're pumping you with. Morphine'll do it to ya, I'm tellin' ya. Aw, hell, no, you're comin' with me." Mephistopheles sneers into the patient's face. "You're just my type."_

_The demon hoots. "How much morphine did they pump into you, man? If you think that little sweetheart wants anything to do with you. Six months from now, she'll be married to some ex-jock who sells insurance and she'll join the garden club and have 2.8 brats and an SUV with a TV in the backseat. _

"_What? Baelfire? Oh, yeah, he got here all right, but—what the hell were you thinkin', sendin' him here? A fourteen-year-old, no family, no friends, no education; how's he gonna manage in this world? Well, yeah, he's alive; CPS got him, natch. You wanna know what he's doing now, Rump? He's, like, 42, dealin' dope. Tried stealin' IDs but he wasn't educated enough for that, even. Spends most of his time high. Come with me and you'll see him soon enough._

"_You what? You're 'done with' me? Nobody's ever 'done with' me. You think just because you duped some chick to fall for you and won yourself a little war that you're all squared up with Him Upstairs, huh? Never pictured you for a fool, Gold—hey, that's funny: fool's gold. Anyhoo, stop pullin' my leg and let's get a move on. 'Stay'? You want to 'stay'? What the hell for? 'Love'? You're a bigger fool than that crowd you moved in with here." Mephistopheles looks up at the cross hanging above the bed. He shudders and throws his empty can at it. "They're liars, you know. Liars and hypocrites. Or don't you remember? All right, you think you've got something here to stay for. Well, let's just take a listen, shall we?"_

_The devil snaps his fingers and voices fill the room. _

"**You hurt people all the time."**

"**Whoever created that monstrosity makes the two of us look positively moral."**

"**This man is a scourge."**

"**Your magic is limited by its own rotten core."**

"**Mr. Gold? He's even worse than she is."**

"**He's a snake, Ms. Swan."**

"**Everyone's afraid of Regina, but they're more afraid of me."**

_The devil grins. "Never been the most popular guy on the block, have you? You've been here, what, a month now? You know how many people have come to see you? Zip, zero, nada. Same number that came to comfort you after your son disappeared." He snaps his fingers in sudden remembrance. "Oh, yeah, speaking of which—the Flatlanders were talking about hanging you after your son disappeared. They said you did it. Got pissed off at the kid for some infraction and killed him. You know what stopped them from lynching you? Me. A few well chosen words from Yours Truly put the fear of Rump back into them. These people here, these 'civilized' people, they'd do the same if they dared. _

"'_Her'? Sweet Cheeks, you mean? Okay, let's just think about her a minute. Supposin' it is 'true love'"—the devil pokes a finger in his mouth and gags. "Say she gets drunk one night and runs off to Vegas with you. Then what? She's a sweet young thing married to an old crip who can't keep her home, 'cause all he's got is money. Who can blame her? She's got no friends; no one wants to associate with the wife of the town bastard. She starts runnin' around, you start drinkin' and one night you catch her and—pow, zoom, to the moon, Alice. Now she's your punching bag. Hell help you if there are any kids involved. You know this ends only one way: one of you's gonna use that little pop gun you keep in the drawer by the front door. Do her a favor, Rump. Write her a nice check and send her packin', then come with me."_

_Mephistopheles stands, throwing his hands up in frustration. "All right then. You'll come crawlin' back to me soon enough. Enjoy your coma, Rump." He vanishes._

* * *

"Is it true?" Belle asks Archie. "Is that what everyone really thinks?"

Hopper nods slowly, then looks toward Gold, but his patient has turned his back to his companions. "It's enough to make anyone depressed."

Belle stutters, "Did you really—his 'right-hand man'?"

"I played both sides of the fence," Gold admits. "Whatever suited my purpose. Right up until I died."

"But now?"

He is quiet from a long time. "I had a traditional conscience once. I tried to be a good man." He gives the command, "Move on."

The haze rises, dense and glittering gold; it smells of wet leaves. It carries them until Gold orders it to stop.

* * *

_They are in a small peasant village, somewhere in the distant past. It's morning; everyone over the age of seven is at work. The younger children play, more or less unattended. A woodsman enters the village. His axe hangs by a rope across his back because in his arms he carries a baby. The woodsman walks up to strangers, beginning with the better dressed: he offers the baby for sale, claiming he found it along the side of the road. "It's a boy. A few years, you can put him to work in the fields." But those who take the trouble to pull the blanket back and examine the baby quickly walk away: "It's a runt. Won't see its first birthday."_

* * *

"Move on," Gold commands the magic, and then, "Stop." The haze has transported them in time but not space: they're in the same village, some years later.

* * *

_Two men are negotiating. Finally a price is agreed upon, money changes hands, and a little boy is taken possession of. He's seven, but from his size one would guess five. At least he's made it past his first birthday. Something is wrong with his right leg; he walks with a stick, but he moves as quickly as any other boy his size. It doesn't matter anyway. He's been hired as an apprentice in an occupation in which size is irrelevant. His new master pulls him along, into a hut that smells of wet wool, and sits him down at a bench attached to a large wooden wheel. The boy touches the wheel and grins._

* * *

"Move on," Gold commands, and then, "Stop." His companions wonder why he's made no comment on the memories he's shown them.

* * *

_It's the same hut, the only difference being the boy's size. He's full-grown, although for him that's not saying much; he's still slight enough that a newborn lamb could knock him over. But he's a man. He doesn't know how old he is, but he does know he's made a decent living for his master, and now it's time to set out on his own, make a life for himself and his bride in a new village. They pack her clothes—three dresses, one pair of shoes—and his into pouches and set out on foot for the village in which she was raised. _

_This is their first meeting._

_Her village needs a spinner; she needs a husband, and Rumplestiltskin makes a decent living at his trade. His master has told him it's time to marry, and so he has. As they walk, they ask no questions of each other._

* * *

"Her name was Estrilda." And that's all Gold has to say on that subject. "Move on."

* * *

_This village looks much like the other; this hut looks much like the other. Estrilda lies on a mat on the floor, a few feet from the spinning wheel, which is silent today. Her husband has gone to market to sell the thread he's made. But really, he's hiding. It's not proper that he be present as his wife delivers their first child. _

_He returns long after dark, but the midwife chases him away. He sleeps on the ground outside. In the morning, the midwife tells him he has a son._

_Rumplestiltskin laughs._

* * *

Gold chuckles. "His name was Baelfire. A breech birth. He came into the world fighting."

"Let me see?" Belle asks, and Gold nods.

* * *

_Barricaded by women, as though he were the enemy, Estrilda lies on her mat. Her hair sticks to her sweaty face; dark circles under her eyes show the toll her work has taken. Rumplestiltskin is not allowed near her, but the midwife presents his squalling son to him. The boy is large and his lungs are strong. He has a thick head of black hair. He yawns in his father's face. _

_Rumplestiltskin is in love._

_A commotion in the road interrupts the family moment. Men on horseback gallop into town; they can be heard going door to door and being greeted with curses and shouts of protest. Rumplestiltskin lays the baby in its mother's arms, gathers his walking stick, ready to use it as a weapon if need be—but it's not a looting that's in progress, not exactly: it's conscription. The Duke of the Frontlands has ordered his recruiters to scour the flatlands for new draftees. _

_As Rumplestiltskin steps outside his hut, two soldiers trap him between their horses. "Are we that hard up?" one of them asks, pointing to Rumplestiltskin's leg. _

"_Take him."_

* * *

"Move on. . . Stop."

* * *

_A sky of fire, a field strewn with bodies, some of them children's. A trumpet blares and a platoon of ogres marches in, swinging axes and daggers and torches, setting fire to the land, hacking at anything that moves._

* * *

"Two years, I think," Gold whispers to his traveling companions. "Maybe three. I'm not sure. North of Alsford. What happened in Avonlea happened here, a hundred years before."

* * *

_A soldier in rags lies face down in a heap with other bodies, except this body stirs. He raises his head, then lowers it to the earth in utter exhaustion. Underfed, under-equipped, outmatched in every way, his army lost the battle long before the first soldier set foot on the field. It's hard to see his face for the mud and blood covering it, but the soldier is clearly scared to death. He knows that ogres take no prisoners._

_Well, that's not quite right. They take the prisoners only because they prefer fresh meat._

_The soldier raises his head again. Ogres are coming. He crawls into the pile of bodies and feigns death. It's not much of a stretch._

_The ogres drag carts, into which they toss their enemies' bodies. There will be a feast tonight. Most nights, there is._

_The soldier lies under his comrades' bodies. The weight is crushing but he doesn't move a muscle. He hears the stomping of ogres' feet, smells their scent over the rusty odor of blood. It smells like something he'd expect to find in his son's nappy; ogres are hardly known for their hygiene. The carts rumble past him._

_He waits long past the last footfall, and then he lifts his head. It's dark, but in the distance he can see their campfires. He drags himself to his feet. He wonders if he's the only survivor, but it's too dark to find out. He makes his way in the opposite direction of the fires, stumbling over his comrades. He leans to the left because his right knee won't support him._

* * *

"'Ogres are not men,'" Belle recalls.

"I thought they would be glad to see me when I got home," Gold says wistfully. "They weren't."

* * *

"_He ran! Saved his own hide instead of doing his duty. Alsford burned to the ground."_

"_How can you bear it, living with that deserter? Good for nothing but to laugh at."_

"_Look at him, all safe and comfortable at his spinning wheel, when the vultures picked my son's bones clean on the battlefield."_

"_Did you hear? A group of boys caught him on the road last night, beat him within an inch of his life."_

"_Teach him a lesson. Teach the town a lesson. We don't tolerate cowards."_

_In the early morning light of midsummer, Estrilda is seen boarding a donkey cart. Rumplestiltskin wakes to his son's tugs: the boy wants breakfast and his mother, but he'll settle for the former. Days later, there's a rumor that Estrilda has taken to the sea with a ship's captain. Rumplestiltskin doesn't go after her. He tends to his son and his spinning._

* * *

"Did you miss her?" Belle asks. "Did you ever find out what happened to her?"

"No."

"Mr. Gold, should we stop here and talk?" Archie offers.

"No."

* * *

"_**Kiss my boot."**_

* * *

Archie mutters, "I'd kill the son of a bitch."

Belle ducks her head against Gold's starched white shirt.

* * *

"_**The only thing I've got is my boy and they're going to take him away from me. If they take him away I'll truly, truly become dust."**_

"_**Not if you have power. . . .If you were to steal the dagger, then you would control the Dark One yourself, and then no one would be able to take your son away from you."**_

"_**To keep a man like the Dark One as a slave? I'd be terrified."**_

"_**Then perhaps instead of controlling the power, you need to take it."**_

* * *

"Take it," Belle finds herself urging.

* * *

"_**Can you imagine me with those powers, Bae? I would get to redeem myself. I could turn it towards good. I'll save all the children of the Frontlands, not just you, my boy."**_

"_**I'd love to see that, but if the law says I'm to fight, I can fight."**_

"_**The law doesn't want you to fight, son. The law wants you to die. That's not battle, that's sacrifice, son. You look at that red in the sky. That's not the fires of the battlefields, that's the blood of our people, son. It's the blood of children, the blood of children like you. What sane person would want to get involved in that?"**_

* * *

"I was as afraid of being left alone as I was of losing my son," Gold admits.

* * *

"_**What a poor bargain that would be, to lay down your soul to save your bastard son. So I ask you, what would you have me do?"**_

_**Rumplestiltskin plunges the dagger into the demon's chest. "Die."**_

* * *

"He tricked you. You didn't know what you were getting into," Belle defends him.

"No one in full knowledge of the Dark curse would take on those powers," Gold explains. "There are far easier ways to acquire power."

The Reul Ghorm sets a hand on his arm. "I misjudged you. Will you forgive me?"

"Oh, no, Mother Superior, you weren't wrong. In fact, we've just gotten started here. Do you want to stop? It gets a hell of a lot worse."

"We can go on if you can. Can you continue?" Archie asks.

Gold thinks it over. "I can do this only once."

"All right, then. Let's proceed."

"The change was instantaneous," Gold says. "Strength, courage, magic; I could make anything happen. I was a new person. I was two people. I heard _his_ voice, egging me on; sometimes I couldn't hear my own voice any more. Or Bae's. I killed the Duke's recruiters—not to protect my son: I could have done that easily—but because they had humiliated me. No one would ever humiliate me again, or cheat me, or offend me. I killed the soldiers, and then I killed a carter who slighted my son. I killed a maid who heard me talking about the dagger." Gold is talking faster now; the dam has broken. "Bae begged me to give up the magic, but how could I? The only way to get rid of the magic was to get rid of me. He was afraid of me; my own son, afraid of me. And I should have been afraid of me too, but the voice said I needn't fear anything again. I could do anything; I could live forever. Bae begged me, and I lied: I said if he would find a way to release the magic without killing me, I would."

"The bean," the Reul Ghorm says.

"Yes, the bean."

* * *

"_**You coward! You promised! Don't break our deal!"**_

_**As wind swirls about him, Rumplestiltskin is clutching with all his might: to his son, who is slipping into the center of a vortex, to his dagger, which anchors him to the world. His strength gone, he loses his grip—on his son. **_

"_**Papa!" Shrieking, the boy slips into the vortex; the hole closes and the wind dissipates. **_

_**Stunned, Rumplestiltskin can only stare for a moment. Then he releases the dagger and scrambles to the spot into which Bae disappeared. He begins to dig with both hands. "Bae! Bae! No, no, no, no. I'm sorry, Bae! I want to come with you. I want to come with you, Bae!"**_

* * *

"Oh," Belle cries. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She buries her face in Gold's shirt.

Archie remembers the visit Gold paid to his office, shortly after August came to town. He understands now what he didn't then. Perhaps soon, if Gold will have it, Archie can help him bear this unbearable loss. For the moment, though, Gold needs to tell the rest of his story. "You couldn't follow him. So what did you do?"

"Everything. Anything." Gold sucks in his breath. "I destroyed the rest of you."

* * *

_**Glowing against a night sky, the Reul Ghorm defies the Dark One. "You will never make it to that world."**_

_**Crazed, Rumplestiltskin searches his knowledge bank, at the moment limited to the legends he's heard and the few weeks of experience he's had experimenting with magic. Later, listening to the urgings of the Dark spirit now lodged in his soul, he will leave his village forever, take refuge in the Dark Castle, and there, in the vast library and laboratory, built and added to by millennia of Dark Ones, he will begin his education in earnest—in desperation. **_

"_**A realm jumper?"**_

"_**No."**_

"_**A time turner?"**_

"_**No."**_

"_**A mage?"**_

"_**There is no—"**_

"_**A curse?"**_

_**The Reul Ghorm hesitates. "No."**_

"_**Ah, so it is a curse."**_

_**She covers her defensiveness with righteous indignation. "Of course you would think of a curse instead of a blessing. Your magic is limited by its own rotten core, Rumplestiltskin. Anyway, it can't be done."**_

_**. . . .**_

_**"I will do nothing else," the lost father vows. "I will love nothing else. I will find a way. You took my son, but I will get him back."**_

_**"I didn't take your son."**_

_**"You took my son but I will get him back!"**_

_**"You drove him away."**_

_**"I will find him! I will find him! I will find him!"**_

* * *

"I was wrong," the Reul Ghorm says simply. "In many ways."

"I tried them all. I spent twenty years jumping from realm to realm, gathering information, searching. It was simple logic: magic can't take you to a land where magic doesn't work. But I chose to ignore that because realm jumping was easy. I spent another lifetime trying to turn time, but it was impossible. I then sought out mages, all the mages of the world; that's how I became a trader, because each of them required something in exchange. I acquired an education, but none of them could bring me any closer to Bae. That's when I turned to Mephistopheles."

* * *

_The demon is seated at the head of Rumplestiltskin's dining table in the Great Hall of the Dark Castle. The imp offers him mead; he wrinkles his nose. "Girly beer." A can of Budweiser appears in his hand. "That's more like. Okay, kid, I've been hearing about you, so cut to the chase."_

"_Can you bring Bae back to this land?"_

"_Sure. He doesn't want to come, though. He'd just run off." Mephistopheles swigs beer and smacks his lips. "Ah. Nothing like a cold one."_

"_Can you take me to where he is?"_

"_Yup. For a price."_

"_What do you want?"_

_The demon grins. "All the world's my stage. You've got nothin' I can't get for myself."_

"_There must be something you want. You wouldn't have agreed to meet with me otherwise."_

"_The one thing I can't just take—people got to give 'em to me of their own free will." The devil enjoys another swig. "Stupid rule. One of His. Someday we'll find a loophole."_

"_What is it? What do you want?" Rumplestiltskin can't wait through the devil's ramblings._

"_Your soul."_

"_My. . . soul."_

"_Well, it's half-mine already. Might as well sign it over, huh?"_

_Rumplestiltskin sits down hard on a chair at the foot of the table. "My soul."_

"_Yeah. While you're alive, that means you work for me. When you're dead, 'Rumplestiltskin! Come on down, you're the next contestant!' No big deal. See, when you signed on as the Dark One, you put one foot in Hell. I'm just askin' for the other. A full commitment."_

"_I could never be with Bae," Rumple says to himself._

_The devil shrugs and grins charmingly. "Well, there's a price for everything."_

"_No. There has to be something else."_

"_Nope, it's a soul or no go."_

"_A soul. You said 'a soul.' It doesn't have to be mine. What if I could get you a better soul than mine? A clean, uncorrupted soul."_

"_Hmm. That might be worth something." The devil checks his wristwatch. "You find me a soul and we'll talk again. Hey, I gotta go. Got a fella waitin'. Arms dealer. Go get me that soul and we'll see."_

_Rumplestiltskin hides, high in the branches of an evergreen. His ears have been burning all day. A desperate soul has been begging for a deal, but he's ignored her calls, and his body's paying for it: his hands shake and his skin itches; the magic is demanding to be used. Soon enough, soon enough._

_A twig snaps, drawing his attention to the forest floor. A girl in rags, her body hunched around a wrapped bundle, stumbles beneath his tree. She nearly falls; she's a Flatlands girl; she doesn't know how to navigate the forest. Her body is that of a woman, but Rumple has read her lifeline and knows her to be thirteen. She sets her bundle down between the roots of his tree and without looking back, runs._

_The bundle squirms. The wrapping slips and a fist arises, a chubby little fist. Rumple takes the leap. He collects the bundle, pushes the blanket aside and confirms: it's a girl, healthy, less than a week old. He's tempted to cuddle her and offer her a bottle and a kind word, but if he does he'll end up offering his heart too, so he whisks her away to the Dark Castle. He calls out to Mephistopheles._

_The devil appears, stomping snow from his boots, demanding a fire in the fireplace and a beer. One-armed—his other arm holding the baby—Rumple stirs the embers. He's too slow for the devil, who snaps his fingers and lights a roaring fire and produces an aluminum can all in one effort. _

_Rumple thrusts the baby at Mephistopheles. "Here. One soul, as promised."_

_The devil steps backward, turning up his nose. "Eww. It stinks. What do you expect me to do with that?"_

"_Take it," Rumple suggests blankly. "And take me to Bae."_

"_Naw, it's not bodies I want; it's souls."_

"_What do you mean?" But Rumple already has figured it out and he blanches._

"_You got to kill it. Then I'll take it."_

"_No!'_

"_I can't take it any other way, Rump. It's too little to sign on with me. Beer, by the way?"_

_Rumple shakes his head, staring at the sleeping baby._

"_So, get on with it. I don't got all day. You're makin' me miss a great fight. Lions vs. the Christians."_

_Rumple presses the baby to his chest. "No."_

_The devil sighs. "Well, hell's bells. Don't call me again until you're ready to deal."_

_The devil disappears and Rumple stares helplessly at the baby in his arms. She stirs and he conjures a bottle, which he offers absent-mindedly, along with his heart._

* * *

"What did you do with her?" Archie wonders.

"There was a couple who couldn't have any of their own. He'd been wounded in the Second Ogre War. But I made the mistake of allowing the other villagers to see me with her."

"And that's when the 'baby eater' rumors started," the Reul Ghorm guesses.

"People will always see the worst in what they don't understand," Belle says.

"There were a few others. Infanticide was the poor family's answer to birth control in those days. I made the adopting parents keep quiet about it: baby brokering was cutting into my time searching for Bae. After that I began to pay regular visits to Hell; it's where the bulk of the information was, about curses. I never could bring him a fresh soul, but I did some odd jobs for Mephistopheles in return for access to information. If I could work a deal so that he would benefit, without actually giving him a soul, I'd do it. Don't paint me with rosy colors, Belle, just because I was too cowardly to kill a baby. I killed five adults easily enough."

Belle draws back from him, staring silently.

Gold turns to Hopper. "And I had a hand in Geppetto's parents' death."

* * *

"_**This will set you free. Pour it, sprinkle it, put it in their curds and whey… Anything will work."**_

* * *

"I had a hand in making Regina, too. She was my apprentice."

* * *

"_Rumplestiltskin!"_

_She's pacing around her apple tree when he arrives, perched on a branch. She swats at him. "Get off." _

_He hops down lightly and examines her. She's dressed in black, from the ribbons in her pompadoured hair to her hook-and-eye boots. Against the black, a streak of red stands out. "You really should wash. Blood clashes with your ensemble, dearie."_

_She rubs her hands against her skirts, but she can't rub out the stains. _

"_Remind me to introduce you to Lady Macbeth sometime," he mutters._

"_I've killed my mother," she announces. _

"_Whatever did you do that for?" He knows, but he will force her to say it aloud, to test her resolve._

_She says it without hesitation, and he is taken aback. "Power. I have her power now."_

_He can feel it burning the air around her, boiling in her veins, entwining like serpents around her heart. The Dark One in his brain reaches out to it in hunger and fraternity. If he killed her now, all that raw power would be his._

_But nothing she has can bring him closer to Bae. He squelches the Dark One. "What do you need with me, then?"_

_She faces him and he can see behind the lust and rage in her eyes a confusion. She's lost, though she thinks she has a direction. "Teach me how to use it."_

_He turns away from her. "You haven't the patience to make a good mage, nor the humility to make a good student."_

"_Teach me or it will kill me."_

_She's right. He transports some clothes from his castle and takes up quarters in hers._

* * *

"She trained with me one season, and then her arrogance overtook her. I wrote her off as a waste of time, until I discovered a way I could use her. It took me more than two hundred years, but I finally developed the Curse to End All Curses—and then I found I couldn't cast it, because it required the one thing I wouldn't do, not even for Bae."

"What's that?" Archie asks.

"Kill the one I loved the most." Gold looks at Belle.

* * *

"_**Go." **_

"_**Go?"**_

"_**I don't want you any more, dearie."**_

* * *

"Me?" Belle gasps, breaking away from Gold.

"No, Belle, no, never, I loved you. I would've done anything to protect you, would have given my life for yours without a second thought. You must believe that," he begs.

"He's not lying, Belle," Archie assures her.

"I know he's not," Belle answers, coming back to Gold's side, taking his hand. "No Dark magic could break this love."

"I came to understand that, after you left."

* * *

_As she steps out on the cobbled street, the nanny hears her name called. She keeps walking, picking up her pace; it's dark and this is hardly a safe neighborhood. The street is busy with laborers rushing home. She's looking back, over her shoulder, worried that she's being pursued—and doesn't hear the hack speeding towards her. A hand seizes her arm and pulls her backward. She lands on the sidewalk in a crinoline heap. _

"_Careful, dearie." Her rescuer grins at her through twisted teeth. He helps her to stand. His skin glitters gold. She glances at her arms and finds claws, not hands, gripping her. "Fear not, Gunnora. I only want a word."_

_She yanks her arm away and tries to run. Suddenly he's in front of her, holding her again. "Now, now, is that any way to thank the man who just saved your life?"_

"_Rumplestiltskin," she pants. "Let me go. I want nothing more do with you, sir."_

"_Just a question, Gunnora, no tricks involved. It's about Belle."_

_She casts her eyes about nervously, but on a noisy city street they can speak in perfect privacy. Besides, she's had a taste of his magic; there's no escaping him. "Don't you speak Milady's name." She crosses herself._

_He releases her and steps back. His body deflates. "So it's true. She's dead."_

"_Because of you. Because she loved you." Gunnora draws her skirts firmly about her and hurries away. _

_The imp leans against a rain barrel. He doesn't chase her again._

* * *

"After that I. . . lost my way," Gold shrugs his shoulders. "I learned that Dark magic and drink don't mix. I left the Dark Castle. People kept calling for me, but all they wanted was magic. I. . . retired. I don't know how many years I wasted. I'm not even sure why I went back." He pauses. "No, that's not true. I went back for the dagger." He sighs. "Do you know what happens when a Dark One tries to kill himself with his own dagger?"

Belle gasps, but Gold shrugs. "Nothing."

"I found myself one night in your room, Belle. I went in to clean out your things, but I couldn't even do that. So I ended up in Bae's room, trying to figure out how it had all happened. I was holding a kickball that he used to play with, and I suddenly realized I couldn't picture him any more. Not even the magic could reproduce his image for me.

"I thought then, no matter how much damage would be done, no matter how many lives would be broken, I was ready for the curse to be cast. And so I went to the one soul I knew to be as desperate as I was, and I started to work on her. Day after day, week after week, I planted memories. She'd be standing in her bedroom at night, watching her Huntsman sleep, and suddenly on the wind would come wafting the scent of horses and leather, and she'd remember her Daniel. Or she would be at a ball, tapping her foot to the music, and she would swear she felt his hands come around her waist to swirl her onto the dance floor. On the anniversary of his death, I sent her a gift: I enchanted her ring so that she could see his image in it. It didn't take long. Once she had killed her mother, her soul was already in Mephistopheles' back pocket."

* * *

_**The Dark One reaches out from the bars of his cell and seizes the Queen's throat. "You know what you love. Now go kill it."**_

* * *

The haze in the crystal ball turns black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Arising**

**Chapter 4: Gold**

* * *

"'I will do nothing else. I will love nothing else. I will find a way,'" Gold murmurs, still lost in the haze. The crystal ball has cleared itself and now appears to be an ordinary ornament, but he has yet to remove his hand from it or tear his eyes away until Belle draws him gently back to the present.

"I understand now," she assures him. "It was so much more that I realized. Loving me would take your magic away, and without your magic you couldn't—" She clasps her hand over her mouth. "Oh!"

The blood has drained from Gold's face. "There was no other way to beat Regina. I had to surrender the magic to Emma; she was the savior. It was her birthright. But Belle, how do I find Bae now?"

Mother Superior reaches into her jeans pocket for a mini-pack of tissues, which she puts to immediate use, then shares with Belle.

Archie reaches under the patio table for his medical bag, from which he retrieves a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor. He moves to Gold's left side. "****." He addresses the pawnbroker by his first name; after what they've experienced, it seems permissible. "I need to check your blood pressure."

"What?" Gold is having trouble focusing.

"You don't look well." Hopper takes the liberty of unfastening Gold's cufflink and pushing his sleeve up to apply the monitor.

As Archie performs a hasty physical, Mother Superior refills Belle's glass and urges her to drink. The nun then has a suggestion. "****. I was wrong: this land is not without magic. It's just not our kind of magic. No one goes unobserved or uncharted here. Everyone leaves a paper trail."

"Libraries," Belle adds. "The World Wide Spiderweb, telephones, email, cars, airplanes. Wherever he is in the world, we'll find him. We'll start first thing tomorrow."

Archie unstraps the monitor and listens with his stethoscope. "Your blood pressure's up. You need to rest." He returns his instruments to their bag.

"I need to continue. I have a third lifetime to review."

Archie's expression fluctuates as the physician in him argues with the psychiatrist. He finds a compromise: "All right, but let's start with some pleasant memories. Biofeedback by magic."

"Very well," Gold answers impatiently; Archie doubts if he's listening. Gold places his hand on the crystal ball again and begins the spell; the Reul Ghorm hastily joins in. Once more, the haze runs through its pattern of colors and settles on gold before sweeping the travelers into the not-so-distant past.

* * *

"_**You're real. You're alive. She did this to you?"**_

"_**I was told you'd protect me."**_

"_**Oh yes. Yes, I'll protect you."**_

"_**I'm sorry. Do I know you?"**_

"_**No. But you will."**_

* * *

Gold squeezes Belle's hand. "You will soon." He isn't smiling.

* * *

"_**Rumplestiltskin. Wait. I remember."**_

* * *

"The world stopped turning for me at that moment," he admits. "You might have cursed me, walked away from me, slapped me, and I would have deserved every one of those."

"No," Belle shakes her head. "No, I couldn't."

* * *

"_**I love you."**_

"_**Yes. Yes, and I love you too. But hey, there'll be time for that. There'll be time for everything. But first, there's something I must do."**_

* * *

He's shaking his head in dismay. "I should have explained as I was releasing the potion. I'm just—I've never learned how to open up to people. Besides you and Bae, I never wanted to."

"I understand the urgency," Belle says. "We had a war breathing down our necks. We needed firepower. I do think, though, you could've spared a moment to kiss me."

"I'll make it up to you, if you'll permit me."

"Hmm, I suppose that can be arranged."

* * *

"_**I know who you are, and I know what you're looking for."**_

"_**Well then, I guess all the lying can stop. . . Papa."**_

* * *

"The son of a bitch," Archie declares. He remembers in full the night Gold came to him for guidance; it was the first time he'd ever seen Gold—or Rumplestiltskin—vulnerable.

"He told you he was Bae?" Belle knows none of this: in her experience, August is a decent, dutiful man who served her well as her aide de camp during the Regina War. If she'd had medals to give, she surely would have presented him with several. "Why?"

"One desperate soul can recognize another."

* * *

"_**You were right, Bae. You were always right. I was a coward, and I never should've let you go. I know it's little consolation, but I just want you to know, that ever since you left, ever since you crossed the barriers of time and space, in every waking moment, I've been looking for you. And now that I've finally found you. . . . I know I can't make up for the past, for the lost time. All I can do, is to ask you to do what you've always done. And that's to be the bigger man. . . . And forgive me. I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry, Bae."**_

_**In reply, the faux Bae embraces his distraught "father."**_

_**Gold is now broken, his heart laid bare. "Oh, my boy. My beautiful boy. Can you truly, truly forgive me?"**_

"_**I forgive you, Papa."**_

_**. . . .**_

"_**I chose it once. Now I choose you."**_

* * *

"I have not violated our agreement to start with pleasant memories," Gold says softly. "I've—I'm beginning to accept the fact that I will never see my son again. As furious as I was that August tricked me in a most devastating way, the likelihood that I will never again embrace my son, never have the chance to ask his forgiveness—in a strange way, I suppose August gave me that, for a few minutes." He smiles at Belle. "Don't punch him out, Belle, as much as I know you want to right now. He did me a favor of sorts."

"It's still inexcusable," Belle pronounces.

"But understandable. He had his reasons," Gold explains. "I was mad as hell, but not so much any more. He took good care of you during the war, so I suppose he's made amends." He pauses to rest.

Hopper reminds him about his blood pressure, but Gold brushes the air with a hand. "Now or never, Doctor. We've only touched the surface in my catalog of crimes. Unlike August, I'll never be able to make amends." He closes his eyes, then orders the magic to move on.

* * *

_Gold yanks a pillow over his head and flops onto his side, away from the window, away from those damn birds. He hates noise in the morning, especially the relentlessly cheerful tweeting of birds._

"_The black-capped chickadee is the state bird of Maine. The common blue jay is a year-round resident of Maine. Maine has 60 lighthouses. Trout, salmon, small-mouthed bass and perch are abundant in Maine's 6,000 lakes and ponds."_

_His head aches under the weight of facts. He's a details kind of guy, but for the life of him, he can't imagine why he'd memorized such useless information. Must've learned it back in school._

_Strange, he can't remember what school. Where was it again that he'd grown up? _

"_My name is **** Gold. I was born in. . . damn it. I live in a three-story Victorian style house at 23 Shepherd's Way; this year I paid $5,260 in property tax on it. I own a pawnshop at 3438 Main. I have owned this shop for. . . how many years? I drive a 1992 Cadillac Brougham, for which I paid $23,100. Every morning I awake at 7:45 a.m.; I open my shop at 10 a.m.; every evening I read the newspaper with my supper, and I go to bed at 11:30 on the dot. My mother's name was. . . June? Julia? Judy? I had my first kiss at age. . . I don't know. And I started shaving when I was. . . seventeen? Eighteen?" _

_The damn birds win the fight. Gold hauls himself out of bed and smacks the "off" button on his alarm clock. **** Gold is not a morning person._

_He allows his brain to go back to sleep as his body moves through the motions of washing and dressing and feeding itself. As he steps out onto his porch to lock the front door, he nods a curt greeting to a man walking a Dalmatian down the sidewalk._

_What's that guy's name again?_

_Still half-asleep, Gold walks six blocks south to Granny's and buys a cup of coffee, black. A ribbon of heat leaks out through the little hole in the lid. By the time he reaches his shop, the coffee will have gone lukewarm and he'll end up dumping most of it out. What a waste, but buying a cup of coffee is part of the ritual._

_He unlocks the door of his shop, switches on the lights, adjusts the thermostat and flips the sign on his door to read "open." Taking his position behind the cash register, he sips his coffee. Lukewarm. He sets the cup on the shelf behind him, and that's when he finds the book._

_A well-preserved, leather-bound, antique book of fairy tales, with color illustrations. Gold seldom reads fiction—unless it's a western and he's alone in his salmon-pink house. Certainly, he'd never read a fairy tale. But he must examine this book if he's going to price it correctly, so he opens the book at its last page, a lovely illustration of a young man holding a sword in one hand and a baby in another. The young man's under attack. The baby is wrapped in a knitted blanket that identifies her as "Emma."_

_Gold's headache returns._

_He reads the story. Then, with no customers to serve, he flips to the front of the book and reads the whole thing. His skin itches; his head still aches. He keeps flipping back to that last illustration. It's not the sword fight that fascinates him; it's the name woven into the baby blanket. He brushes his fingers against the illustration, as if he could feel the yarn, as if he could feel the warmth of the baby the blanket shelters. _

_Emma. _

_When at 1 p.m. someone finally comes into the shop—an elderly man who's interested in purchasing a whale carving he's seen in the window—Gold hastily hides the book under his accounts ledger. Wouldn't help his reputation to get caught reading a children's book. When the customer pays and walks out with the whale, Gold busies himself dusting the shelves. But at noon, when he retreats to his workshop for lunch, he carries the book._

* * *

"This was the first day in Storybrooke. Of course, only Regina knew that. The curse walled off our memories and planted false ones, so if you had asked any of us, we would have told you we'd lived in Storybrooke 'for as long as we could remember.'"

* * *

_When he goes home that night, he carries the book._

_He dreams about the baby._

_In the morning, when those damn chickadees wake him, he knows, just as sure as he knows that the capital of Maine is Augusta, Stephen King was born in Maine, and the official state song of Maine is—well—"The State of Maine Song." He knows he has to find Emma. Not the baby Emma, but the grown Emma—and not to bring Emma to Storybrooke, but to bring Emma's baby to Storybrooke._

_A baby that won't be born for another 18 years. Ah, well, then, no rush._

* * *

"Henry," the Reul Ghorm surmises.

"Henry's book," Archie adds. "How did you come by it?"

"I wrote it," Gold says. "Right after I created the curse, to lead me to Henry, and later, to lead Henry to Emma. After I found the book again, I started to work on Regina, one subliminal nudge at a time, over eighteen years. A lullaby that just happened to be playing on a radio when she dropped into my shop. A toy that I just happened to be dusting. A brief conversation on the street when we'd both look up and find we were standing in front of a children's clothing store. An elementary school that she could see every morning from her kitchen window—in a town that I had designed when I was Rumplestiltskin, locked in King James' underground prison. Then in 2001, I made the suggestion directly: a child would make her seem more relatable to voters. A child would fill her big empty house with laughter. A child would adore her. A boy child she could name after her beloved father. When I told her I could bring her a child without the inconvenience of a background check or intrusive visits by social workers, she demanded I do so."

"Why?" Belle snaps. "Why would you curse a baby to a lifetime with Regina? You knew what she was capable of."

"For Bae."

No one can connect those dots: Regina to Henry to Emma to Bae. But Gold offers no further explanation. He simply orders the magic to move them forward.

Archie glances at Belle. She's started coming to him to talk about her adjustment to the modern world, but he suspects that conversation will be short. What she really needs help with is prying Gold open. Now _that_ will be a long, long conversation.

* * *

_It's dark and snowy. At the borderline between Storybrooke and the rest of the human world, a Cadillac Brougham lies in wait, parked off the road, just behind the Welcome sign. The irony is not lost on the driver of the vehicle: when a slow-moving Escalade rolls up to the sign, the Caddy driver flashes his headlights twice. The Escalade driver pulls onto the shoulder of the road and parks; the passenger side door opens, a parkaed figure climbs out, moves around to the back, opens another door and removes a bundle. The figure comes around to the front of the van, into the glare of the headlights. _

_The Caddy driver slides out of his vehicle, moves to the passenger side of his car and opens the door. Parka Man comes around and exchanges a few words with the Caddy driver; then money and the bundle are exchanged. The Caddy driver secures the bundle onto the passenger seat. He waits until the Escalade has gone before snapping on his overhead light. He leans over the bundle, ensures that the seat belt is secure, then takes off one of his gloves and reaches out._

"_Hello, Henry. I'm Mr. Gold." He touches the baby's cheek. The skin is chilly, so he adjusts the baby's knitted hat for better coverage. "I'm sorry for all this; I'll get you inside in just a few minutes." _

_Gold cranks up the heat in the Caddy, pushes the start button on his CD player, then as a lullaby fills the car, he turns off the overhead light and shifts the gears. _

_It's a short drive: anything in Storybrooke is. As he swings the Caddy into its garage, Gold is still talking to the baby, describing the town which will be Henry's new home. Gold lowers the garage door and unstraps Henry from the infant car seat. Despite the hassle of bulky coats and blankets, Gold easily manages both the baby and his cane; he's had years of practice now, carrying things in his left arm only. He takes the baby inside the big salmon house through the connecting door with the kitchen. The house is warm and lit._

_As soon as Gold enters, he's greeted by a middle-aged woman, who informs him that she's just put the kettle on and will have tea ready momentarily. She also informs him that there's a bottle of formula warming on the stove as well. Then she puts him out of mind and devotes herself to the baby._

* * *

Belle's mouth drops open and she clutches Gold's arm. "Is it—"

He nods.

* * *

_The sun has barely risen when Gold, this time joined by the middle-aged woman, drives Henry to his new home. As he removes the baby from the car seat, Gold asks his companion, "One moment, please. Go on up to the door and wait there." The woman complies._

_After reassuring himself that there's no one on the street to see this, Gold presses his cheek to the baby's and whispers in the child's ear. "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do you, Henry. She's a cold, calculating woman, and you'll have many an occasion to doubt whether she loves you or even cares. You'll wonder sometimes if you're nothing more than a fashion accessory to her. But it's temporary, I promise; when you're ten years old, you'll find your birth mother again, and you'll never again be parted from her. And when you're five you'll meet your grandmother, and she'll be everything a boy could hope for in a grandmother. Until then, you'll have two fine people to raise you, and I'll be looking out for you, from a distance." _

"_Ah, Mr. Gold, I see you've brought my son." _

_Her voice—courteous, falsely friendly, always with a threat lying just below the surface—carries across her broad lawn. He turns and carries the baby to her. "Good morning, Regina. Allow me to present Nora, a certified professional nanny. Knowing how busy you are, I took the liberty of hiring her, contingent, of course, upon your approval."_

_Although it's not even seven a. m., Regina is already immaculately dressed and coiffed. As her mouth drops open, Gold observes that the shade of lipstick she wears gives the impression that she's been drinking tomato juice—or blood. She collects her composure and stands aside, holding her front door open to allow her guests admittance. "Of course. Thank you for thinking of that, Mr. Gold; it had escaped me completely."_

"_Well, a woman as busy as you really can't be getting up twice a night to feed an infant. That wouldn't be good for you or for Storybrooke, now would it?" Gold says as he enters with the baby; the nanny, carrying a diaper bag, follows. Though they haven't been invited all the way in, the guests move from the foyer to the parlor. Gold sets the car seat on a marble table next to a bowl of fresh flowers._

"_No, it wouldn't—twice a night?" Regina squeaks. _

"_Yes, ma'am." And with these two words, clever Nora entrenches herself in Regina's household. "This baby is only twenty-six days old. He requires feeding every three to four hours, his tummy being so small, of course."_

"_Of course," Regina echoes; she doesn't want to appear ignorant._

"_Not to mention the diapers," Gold prompts—and he turns his back quickly, under the pretext of removing the baby from the car seat, so Regina won't see him snigger. _

"_Oh, yes, ma'am, the diapers," Nora grabs the prompt and runs with it. "At this age, an average of nine changes per day."_

"_Per. . ." Regina says faintly._

"_Now, it's entirely up to you, of course, ma'am," Nora slips off her coat, looks around for a place to hang it—moving automatically, Regina drapes it over the couch. "I don't know where you stand on the issue of cloth versus disposable, but it's my experience that cloth causes fewer rashes, and—though I haven't seen anything in the professional literature to support this; it's just my observation, based on more years of raising babies than I care to count. But as I was saying, I believe a baby who's been raised in cloth diapers will potty-train more easily. You see, the cloth causes the baby to be more aware of the moisture, and of course no self-respecting baby wants wet cloth next to his delicate skin. Wouldn't you agree, ma'am? Now, about feeding schedules—"_

"_Pardon me, Nora, I don't mean to interrupt, but I really must be going," Gold butts in. He looks to Regina. "May I assume, then, you're content with my arrangements? Oh, and I should mention, since you'll need your nanny to live in, at least for the first year or two, you'll want to send your man over to Granny's for Nora's things."_

"_If I decide to hire her," Regina says, trying to take control of the conversation. _

_Gold pats the baby's belly, eliciting a coo from the boy, then hands the baby to Regina. "Congratulations, Madame Mayor."_

_It takes her a moment, but Regina soon figures out how to hold the baby. She looks into his eyes and is instantly hooked. Gold looks over her shoulder at Nora and winks. "By the way, Regina, have you chosen a name yet from your list of English kings?"_

"_Yes," Regina says absently, for the baby has begun to suck on her finger. "His name is Henry."_

"_A fine, strong name. Top of your list, as I recall." Gold pulls on his gloves. "I must be going. Good morning, Madame Mayor. Good morning, Nora." As he steps outside, he passes Regina's butler, arriving for work. "Good morning, Randolph."_

"_Good morning, Mr. Gold." The butler bobs his head._

* * *

Belle squints. "Hey, isn't that—yes, it's Ranulf!"

"Well, it is now; it was 'Randolph' then," Gold says. "Funny thing, just a year after coming to work for Regina, Nora married Randolph. Seems true love works even when the couple don't know their own names."

* * *

"_**Emma. What a lovely name."**_

* * *

"As soon as she spoke her name, the gates on my memory opened. Took me a while to sort it all out and find my equilibrium, and then it took me a few more days to cope with my anger over losing 28 years. But the memory loss was a necessary evil; the final battle against Regina could not begin until Emma arrived, so to have lived here, year after year, remembering who we were—"

"Like Jefferson," Archie supplies. Jefferson too has been seeing Archie on a regular basis.

Gold realizes he need not elaborate. His three fellow travelers recently experienced the disorientation and heartbreak that laid them flat on the day the curse broke and they remembered Fairytale Land. "Regina has—had—several flaws, but one of the biggest, as far as her magic was concerned, was impatience. She couldn't be bothered with planning all the details of the curse, including the building of Storybrooke, so she handed most of it over to me. I managed to slip a few small loopholes in: bringing Henry, an outsider, into town was one; Gunnora and Ranulf were another; the 'Emma clause' was another. I needed to get a head start over the rest of you, so I could nudge Emma along toward her _raison d'etre_. Couldn't have Regina chasing the savior out on her first day in town, could we? And Emma seemed bound and determined to run at first opportunity."

* * *

"_**If not, I'm going to have to involve the police and that baby is going to end up in the system. And that would be a pity. You didn't enjoy your time in the system, did you, Emma?"**_

* * *

"No wonder you're the most hated man in town," Archie mutters.

"I never intended to take Ashley's baby, any more than I intended to take Ella's. The threat was simply the most effective way to get Emma involved in Storybrooke, so she wouldn't leave before breaking the curse."

"But a baby!" Belle protests. "To threaten to take a baby! Surely you could have come up with something less—"

"Desperate? Emma's been running from commitments her entire life, so I had to push the biggest, reddest button she had: the foster system. It wasn't enough for her to dread Regina—her solution would have been to take Henry and run. I had to give her a reason to stay: protecting the town against me. To make her beholden to me—and to remind everyone of my ruthlessness—was just a side benefit."

* * *

"_**The mobile. Isn't it charming?"**_

_**. . . .**_

"_**I think this belonged to me."**_

"_**Really? Are you sure?"**_

* * *

"I gave Charming the choice between the real memory and the fake. Fortunately for him, he chose the wrong stimulus."

The Reul Ghorm wonders, "Why do you say 'fortunately'?"

"To have remembered Fairytale Land a year before Emma was ready to break the curse—"

"Ah, I see."

* * *

"_**That's the thing about children. Before you know it, you lose them."**_

* * *

"Tools for Operation Cobra," Gold muses, referring to Graham's walkie-talkies. He makes no comment about his parenting advice to Emma.

* * *

"_**Spoken like a true fighter."**_

"_**I don't know what chance I have. She's mayor and I'm, well, me."**_

_**. . . .**_

"_**You set the fire."**_

"_**Go ahead. Expose me."**_

_**. . . .**_

"_**Standing up to me, you won them over. . . . Now that you're sheriff, I'm sure we can find some way for you to pay back what you owe me."**_

* * *

"And the parade of reasons to hate Gold just keeps on comin'," Archie observes.

Gold sighs. "August was right about Emma: that woman is stubborn. She wouldn't have given Storybrooke another day after Regina fired her, so I had to raise the stakes, and her profile. I made her sheriff."

"Yes, but to commit arson to do it?" the Reul Ghorm queries.

"It worked, did it not?"

* * *

"_**What's your price?"**_

"_**Forgiveness."**_

* * *

"Unfortunately, I no longer have anything that Emma—or anyone else—is likely to want badly enough to pay that price today."

The Reul Ghorm sets a hand on his. "Someone else paid the price for you, Mr. Gold."

* * *

"_**If you really want to bring her down, you're going to need a strong ally."**_

* * *

"What Emma really needed, that first year, wasn't so much to believe in the storybook as it was to believe in herself. And so I was her test. She had three choices: she could run, she could sell herself out to me, or she could stand alone, trusting her own judgment. I tempted her, as all saviors must be tempted by a devil, but I made damn well sure she saw what choosing my way would entail. She almost slipped, but in the long run Emma failed to come over to the Dark side, after she'd seen how I operate. But I had to make her realize she couldn't keep relying on others like Glass or August; she had to stand up on her own two feet, if she was ever going to become a savior."

Gold gives them a moment to think this over, then sighs deeply. "It gets worse now, Belle."

"Worse than murder, kidnapping and arson?" Archie is skeptical.

"Add 'framing' to the list."

* * *

"_**If you want to inflict pain, then you must inflict pain. If something tragic were to happen to David's wife, and if Mary Margaret should take the blame—"**_

* * *

"Kathryn's disappearance, Mary Margaret's trial—that was you," the Reul Ghorm breathes.

"You'd have let Mary Margaret get the death penalty just to please Regina," Archie says. "You _are_ a bastard."

"Yes, it was me, but kindly pay attention, Dr. Hopper. The plan—which was carried out correctly—was to place Mary Margaret in a desperate situation in which she would panic and flee; a trial was never part of the deal, and in fact never occurred, did it? I say this not to lessen the counts against me, but merely for the sake of accuracy. Yes, I hired men to snatch Kathryn; I acquired a human heart from Dr. Whale, who tampered with the DNA tests, and then I exposed Mary Margaret to the manipulative questioning of the DA. Mary Margaret ran; Emma then had to choose between the law and justice. This is another test a savior must undergo, and she passed with flying colors. The more important test, however, was this one."

* * *

_**Emma offers Mary Margaret the keys to the VW. "Here. Go."**_

"_**You want me to run?" Mary Margaret is incredulous.**_

"_**No, but it's your choice. Just know something: running ain't easy. I've done my share of it. And once you go, there's no stopping."**_

"_**Emma, everyone thinks I killed Kathryn."**_

"_**Mary Margaret, you have to believe me. You have to trust me. I know it seems impossible, but I can get you out of this."**_

* * *

"Emma, she of little faith, had to choose whether to place blind faith in another person. Never before, when given such a choice, had she selected faith. Everything her eyes could see, all the _science_ of the situation, indicated Mary Margaret's guilt, but there is something special about Ms. Blanchard—a quality she exhibits even more strongly than Snow does—that calls out for faith. And so Emma became a woman of faith, and when Mary Margaret placed her life in Emma's hands, Emma rose up to become her champion. When Mary Margaret became a fugitive, Emma had to quit running. These were life-changing steps for Emma, setting her feet on the path to becoming the savior."

Archie drums his fingers angrily. "Do you really expect us to believe you staged a murder, conducted a kidnapping, and made a fugitive out of an innocent woman, all so that her daughter would gain self-confidence and learn to trust?"

Gold snaps, "We had a deal, Doctor. No lies, no deception. I do not renege on my deals."

"So awful," Belle mutters, stunned. "I never knew you could do such—"

"Evil," the Reul Ghorm supplies. "Belle, God sometimes performs miracles, even through acts of evil."

"Are you saying you see _justification_ for what Gold did to Mary Margaret and Kathryn and David?" Archie shakes his head. "Mother Superior, I'd expect you, of all people, to speak out against evil, not let it pervert the truth to justify its acts."

"No, of course not—"

"I'm not attempting to justify or trivialize my actions, Dr. Hopper," Gold interrupts. "But if we're going to tell the truth, it should be told in its entirety. All right, Belle, I've shown you almost everything you need to know. There is one more crime. . . . This is the point, I think, at which you may give up on me. In my defense, I can say only, having learned from Gunnora that you had died, I believed the rest of Regina's lie: I thought it was your father's doing. As this was only a year ago, it gives you little reason to think I've improved since I was freed from the Dark curse. If it were possible to turn time and stop oneself from committing a terrible act, I would do it now. All I'm left with is to say, I was wrong. Time and time again, I chose violence and cowardice. I was given a third life, but I conducted it pretty much the same way as the first two. Mephistopheles is right: there can be no hope for me."

* * *

"_**Now here's the thing: I don't normally let people get away."**_

* * *

"My father!" Belle cries out. "My gods, Rumplestiltskin, not my father!"

The Reul Ghorm gasps. Archie drops his head into his hands and moans an expletive.

* * *

"'_**My fault'? What are you talking about, 'my fault'? You shut her out. You had her love, and you shut her out! She's gone. She's gone forever – she's not coming back. And it's your fault! Not mine! You are her father! It's your fault! It's your fault!"**_

_**Emma bursts through the cabin door and seizes Gold's arm. "Stop it!"**_

* * *

Belle's body jerks; she's broken her connection with the magic; she pushes away from the patio table and runs.

Gold, his face hard, lets her go. He withdraws his hand from the crystal ball and walks away.

Days later, Bernadette brings back a message from town: Belle sends her thanks, but she will not be returning to the convent. Ruby has offered her a job and a home in the Bed & Breakfast. She has much to learn; it's time for her to live independently, for the first time in her life.

Days later, Mother Superior takes a basket of pears to 23 Shepherd's Way. Even before she climbs the stairs, she realizes her effort is fruitless, but she knocks anyway and waits, and when no one answers, she tries the door. It's locked. She finds the garage door up; the Cadillac is gone.

She walks past the remains of the pawnshop, just in case. The cleanup crew has not come to work here yet; perhaps this delay is intentional, just a little token of the town's regard for Gold. There is much, much work to be done here, if this shop is to be rebuilt. Perhaps, she thinks, it would be best not to rebuild the old, but rather, to build something completely new. And then she realizes that may be true for Gold's life, too.

Perhaps the trespasses that most need forgiving are those we have no justification or sympathy for.

* * *

_**A/N. This chapter was so hard to write. We know the basis of everything he does, but it's awfully hard sometimes to connect those dots back to finding Bae. I took a swing at it for some of his offenses, but for some, I couldn't find justification, so I tried to take Mother Superior's advice.**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Arising**

**Chapter 5: **** (as soon as we have Gold's first name, it will go here)**

* * *

"Mr. Gold!" The private investigator rises from his desk as his client enters. A change comes over the man's face; as quickly as he rearranges his features, Gold catches the change and responds with a wry smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lyon. You appear to be disappointed." Gold shifts his briefcase from his right hand to his left so that he can shake Lyon's hand.

The PI gestures to his guest chair as an invitation to be seated; Gold accepts the invitation. "Coffee? Tea?"

"Tea would be nice, thank you." Gold's right hand curls downward; it's seeking his cane. He has to remind the hand that the cane was abandoned months ago. "You were saying, Mr. Lyon?"

"Oh, well. . . ." Lyon crosses to his credenza, where a coffee maker and an electric teapot wait. He fills two mugs with water, then sets them and two spoons on a tray, along with a box of Earl Grey and a box of sugar packets. "It's just that, after all these years of talking to you on the phone, I pictured you as. . . bigger." He shrugs as he carries the tray to his desk. "No offense."

"None taken. I've always made it a point to sound bigger."

Lyon chuckles. He hands Gold one of the mugs and a spoon, then offers the box of tea packets. After Gold has prepared his mug, Lyon prepares his. "So. . .what brings you to Boston, Mr. Gold? I figure it must be important, since you didn't just call, like usual."

"I wanted a vacation. And it's a personal matter this time."

Lyon sets his tea aside and withdraws a legal pad from his desk drawer. He clicks a pen open. "Fire away."

Gold opens his briefcase. "I want you to find two people. The first will be rather easy, I should think. His name is Moe French. Here's a photo, along with all the particulars." He removes a folder from the briefcase and slides it across the desk.

As Gold drinks his tea, Lyon glances through the file. "Shouldn't be too tough. You last saw him in Storybrooke four months ago?"

"That's correct."

"I'll get to work on it. And when I find him?"

"I want his address."

"That's all?"

"That's all." Gold's mouth quirks up. "Did you think I would ask you to abduct him?"

"No, no, I—" Lyon shrugs.

"The second. . . ." Gold slides a second folder across the table. "This will be next to impossible, but I want you to try anyway, however long it takes. I don't mind the cost."

Lyon frowns, then picks up Gold's tea mug and sniffs it. "Yeah, just tea," he assures himself. "Sorry, Mr. Gold, I thought I might've slipped you a mickey by mistake. 'Don't mind the cost,' you said? I did hear that right?"

"You heard correctly."

Lyon opens the file. The only item in it is a page torn from a book, a color illustration of a teenage boy with curly dark hair and dark eyes. "This is all? What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"You. . . don't know?"

"Well, when I knew him, his name was Baelfire." Gold spells the name out and Lyon dutifully writes it on the legal pad.

"His last name?"

"I don't know."

"Last known address?"

"I don't know."

Lyon taps his pen on the desk. "When you knew him, you said. When did you see him last?"

"I don't know."

"'Don't know'? Do you mean, 'don't remember'?"

Gold shrugs. "Something like that."

Lyon scowls. "All right. . . how old is he?"

"I don't know. He was fourteen at the time this drawing was made."

"Which was when?"

"I don't know."

Lyon sits back in his chair and tosses the pen onto the desk. "Let's try this another way. Tell me what you do know about him."

"He was born on October 4."

"Year?"

"I don't—"

"Let me guess: you don't know."

"He was five foot five inches, about 110 pounds—"

"—When you saw him last."

"Yes."

"Brown hair, brown eyes."

"Yes."

"Distinguishing marks?"

"A one-inch scar on his right knee."

Lyon slaps his hands on the table and laughs. "What, is this _Punk'd_? Where's Ashton Kutcher?"

"I'm not familiar with Mr. Kutcher, and although I've been called many things, 'punk' has never been one of them."

"Well, you're BSing me, right?"

Gold stands up and snaps his briefcase shut. "No, Mr. Lyon, I'm quite serious. As long as it takes. I'm quite happy to keep you on retainer until either you find Baelfire or my money runs out or you reach retirement age. Care to guess which of the three is most likely to happen first? You have my cell phone number. Please call when you have information on either party. Thank you for the tea."

* * *

He's back in the PI's office the next morning. Lyon, looking befuddled, forgets to offer refreshment; tea isn't what Gold came for, anyway.

Gold's hands are shaking a little as he sits down. Lyon's always been a fast worker, but never this fast. On the cab ride over from the Ritz, Gold kept imagining how this conversation would go: _Mr. Gold, I found Baelfire—in the county morgue._

"Mr. Gold," the PI begins, a question underneath his tone, "I have results in both cases." He slides across the desk the same two files that Gold had given him. "The first man, Moe French, still goes under the same name. He's a maintenance man at the Bates Motel in Dorchester. He works the day shift. He lives at the motel."

Gold's mouth goes dry. Maybe he needed that tea, after all. "Very good, Mr. Lyon. And the other?"

The PI tilts his head. "The other—Mr. Gold, no charge for this search. It took me longer to print out the pages you'll find in that folder than it did for me locate him. All I had to do was Google. I got six websites, under variations in spelling, all of them redirecting me to the same page: baelfire-dot-com. It seems, Mr. Gold, he's been looking for you."

Gold can't look the investigator in the eye. He can't open the files. Something's buzzing in his head and he has to get out of here. He stands and shakes hands with Lyon. "Thank you. Please send your invoice to my home address."

* * *

On the street, he flags down a cab, then once he's safe in the backseat, he opens the French file. He can't look at the other.

The taxi driver eyes the address that Gold has handed him, then the suit Gold's wearing. "You sure about this address, mister? I mean, it's a rough part of town."

"I'm sure."

Pulling up to the office of the Bates Motel, the driver tries again. "You want me to wait here?"

Gold considers it. "No, but if you'll return in one hour, I'd appreciate it." He tips the driver generously as an assurance.

"Will do. And good luck."

Gold enters, brushing past a pair of scantily clad women who, he supposes, are many years younger than their makeup suggests. He approaches the desk, wishing he'd brought his cane—just in case. The clerk refers him to a room on the second floor. Gold climbs the stairs, avoiding the rusted railing, which is coming loose from the concrete. He finds the door to the room open, but he knocks just the same.

"This one isn't ready," a familiar voice shouts from the bathroom, over the sound of metal striking metal.

Gold swallows hard and crosses the threshold. "Mr. French?"

The pounding comes to an abrupt halt. A moment later, Moe emerges, wrench in hand. He stands there staring.

Gold has rehearsed a dozen different ways to begin this conversation. None of them has satisfied him. He has the urge to shift from foot to foot, but he forces his body to remain still. "Mr. French, may I have a few minutes of your time?"

"What do you want, Gold?" French is both nervous and annoyed. His stare falls on Gold's right hand; Gold realizes he's looking for the cane. "You didn't bring Belle here, did you?"

"No. She's in Storybrooke. She's well."

French tightens his grip on the wrench. "Well?"

Gold forces himself to maintain eye contact. "I came to apologize."

French's mouth drops open. As he stands there in silence, Gold watches a cockroach skitter across the cuff of the maintenance man's overalls. He remembers when this man wore ermine and commanded—or at least, his daughter did—armies. And then Gold really does feel sorry for his hand in all this man's troubles. "Could you take a break for few minutes, Mr. French?"

Automatically, French turns his wrist up, but he's not wearing a watch. He nods and gestures to the door. He leads the way to the swimming pool and they sit at a plastic table.

"Belle put you up to this."

"She doesn't know I'm here."

French picks up his wrench again.

"I really did come to apologize," Gold says gently, and French lays the wrench down. "What I did to you was—criminal. And I'm truly sorry." He gives French time to digest this, but the man says nothing, merely watches leaves blow around in the empty pool. "I had been looking for some time for an excuse to exact revenge on you—"

"Well, you got it in spades."

"I can't make amends, but I can restore your floral business. In Storybrooke or here, if you prefer. Or finance a new endeavor for you."

"Yeah, I know about the terms of your loans," French growls. "Sixty percent interest, balance due in full if I'm 30 minutes late with a payment."

"Not a loan, an investment." Gold leans on his elbows. "Mr. French, I'd like to ask you now what I should have asked then: why—in the old world—did you allow Regina to imprison Belle?"

"Imprison?" French echoes blankly.

Gold frowns. "You didn't know?"

"What are you talking about, Gold?"

Gold sits back in the plastic chair. "You truly didn't know."

"Why are you bothering to lie to me now, Gold—Rumplestiltskin? It's over and done with."

"It seems we've both been lied to. Mr. French, Regina took your daughter—"

"I know. I was all for it. Regina got her away from you."

"No."

"And then she gave Belle a new life, a position in her court. Comfort, safety. If she'd stayed with me she would've been miserable. The rumors, the innuendos—all your fault, Rumplestiltskin, not mine, not hers, yours."

"A great deal of the fault is mine, but you were lied to, Mr. French. Regina's idea of 'a new life' was to throw Belle into a dungeon, denying her water and food, slapping her, subjecting her to psychological torture, and then when the curse came, locking her away in a padded room in a so-called mental health facility, where she was denied contact with the outside world for twenty-nine years."

French gapes at him, then suddenly leaps to his feet, runs to the pool and leans over it. Gold runs after him, afraid he'll try to harm himself by jumping in, but the man regurgitates. Gold returns to the table, allowing the man some privacy. When French sits down again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Gold offers him a handkerchief.

"She—we treated her as an honored guest—"

"I know," Gold's tone is sympathetic.

"We gave her the best of everything, as you would any visiting royalty."

"Yes."

"My wife befriended her, took her into her confidence. She stayed with us for _months_. And she—and she—"

"Yes. But, Mr. French, it's over now. If you'd only come back to Storybrooke, you'd see: Belle is the picture of health and happiness. She's working at Granny's—Ruby's—and she's made friends and she's helping to rebuild the library. I'm told she's even saving up to buy a car."

"You're told? You mean, she's not with you?"

"No."

"She didn't really love you, then?"

Gold is silent.

French stands. "I need to see her. Apologize to her. And then find Regina."

Gold seizes his wrist. "Regina's no longer the woman she was. And I can tell you, revenge doesn't take away one iota of the pain. Take my advice: go back to Belle and spend the rest of your life getting to know her again. Make her happy, and let her make you happy."

French is warming to the idea; he was kind of hoping to be talked out of facing Regina, anyway.

Gold clinches the deal. "My car is parked in the garage of the Ritz." He digs his keys from his jacket, removes one from the set and hands it to French. "I'll be going back to the hotel in a few minutes. When you're finished here, come to the Ritz. I'll sign the car title over to you. Then you can go back to Storybrooke."

"You'd. . .give me your car?"

"I assure you, Mr. French, it's in fine working condition—"

"No, I don't mean that. I mean, that car must be worth five grand."

"It's time I had a new one."

* * *

It's dinnertime when he arrives back at the Ritz, so, just as a matter of routine—he hasn't had an appetite since the war—he takes a table in the Artisan Bistro and orders the special. He's not usually a special-ordering kind of guy, but at the moment, selecting an entrée, or even an appetizer, seems like too much effort. When the waitperson has gone, Gold opens his briefcase and extracts Lyon's second file.

Now or never.

He flips the file open. The first page is the storybook illustration that Gold had provided.

The second is list of URLs: baelfire-dot-com, balefire-dot-com, baelfire-dot-net and so on, and an email address: baelfiresearch-at-gmail-com.

The third is a set of thumbnail photographs, all of the same individual, presented in chronological order, according to the tags. They date back to 1986.

Then come enlarged versions of those photos.

And, as if he could have any doubt after those photos, which he doesn't, there's a series of email exchanges between lyon_pi-at-hotmail and baelfiresearch-at-gmail, or, as the signatures indicate, Phil Lyon and Bill Hansen. Yes, Hansen says, he's the guy in those photos, and most likely, he's the guy in the illustration. His foster mother created his website, he says, so he could search for his birth father. And to all but one of the most basic questions about his father, Bill's answer is "I don't know."

It's Bae.

Gold stands, starts to walk away, but he doesn't know where he's going or why. He sits back down, sips his wine, unfolds his napkin, drums his salad fork against his soup spoon.

He doesn't know what to do about Bae.

When his soup arrives, it occurs to him he doesn't have to decide yet. There's more in the folder; he can read it, then decide. So he reads, and he learns, and he does decide.

Bae is a 42-year-old Master Sergeant with 24 years in the Air Force. He's currently stationed in Osan, Korea. He's got a chestful of medals, some of them acquired in Iraq and Afghanistan. He's never been married and has no kids, but he has a family: a foster family who raised him from the age of sixteen, when they found him living on the streets. They gave him a wonderful home and made him the man he is now, he says, but he's always been looking for his father, whose name he doesn't know.

Gold can't face a man like that, a man of courage and honor. What would Bae—now Bill—think of a father who framed an elementary school teacher, faked a murder, manipulated an election, committed kidnapping and arson, and beat a man nearly to death? And that was just in the past year. Even without the magic to dabble with, Gold is a Dark One.

And let us not forget the Curse to End All Curses, all the killings leading up to it, all the destruction after it—the crimes Regina committed to activate the curse should, by rights, be laid at Rumplestiltskin's doorstep too.

Gold calls the waiter over and asks for the check. The poor man apologizes: was the soup not satisfactory? Gold says he's sure the meal would have been fine, but he's suddenly jet lagged and must rest. He signs the check and hurries to the elevator.

When he gets to the room, though, he doesn't rest. He buries his face in his hands and curses himself.

* * *

The next day, French comes for the car. Gold signs it over, wishes him good luck. Gold wanders back to his suite. He empties his pockets, takes off his shoes and tie, but he can't get comfortable. He turns the television on, just for the sound of voices. He walks out onto the balcony and watches the world go by. For the first time in 250 years, he has no plan, not even a direction to move in. Old habits die hard; he needs to be headed somewhere, so he slips his shoes back on, but leaves his collar and his pockets unburdened, and he takes a walk.

* * *

As much as she enjoys her new life, Belle finds herself distracted. When the little bell above the restaurant door tinkles, as it does dozens of times a day, her breath catches: she's hoping. When her shift is over and she takes a walk around town before retiring for the evening, she's reacting to every face she passes: she's watching. And when she turns out the light—she adores electricity—and crawls under her sheets to sleep, she lies with her face turned toward the door: she's listening.

He doesn't come. It's been ten days since she saw him last. . . since she ran like a coward instead of talking things out with him, as she confesses to Archie. She should've acted more maturely; after all, she's 53 years old, technically.

"Do the brave thing and bravery will follow." So she gets up off her duff and goes out to find him.

His house is dark, the garage door is up, and the lawn needs mowing.

His pawnshop is still in shambles.

Now she's nervous. She returns to the convent; perhaps he's taken ill and—but no, Mother Superior and Bernie would have called her. Still, maybe they've seen him somewhere. . . although Ruby did mention that various folks have told her they haven't seen him anywhere in ages. Not that they were really looking, but he hasn't collected rent since before the war.

She's interrupting their dinner, but the nuns don't mind; they invite her in and set out another plate. Bernie even admits she misses Belle's conversation. She accepts their hospitality out of gratitude; she has no appetite because she's progressed from nervousness to worry. She moves right to the point. "Have you seen Rumplestiltskin?"

"Not since. . . ." Bernie doesn't finish her sentence.

"Did he say where he was going? Have you had any phone calls? Text messages?"

Bernie shakes her head as she passes over a bowl of mashed potatoes.

"Do you have any idea where he might be? Does he have any friends or business associates out of town that he might be visiting?"

"I'm sorry, Belle," Bernie shrugs. "I guess we don't really know him all that well. His life's a closed book."

"You're worried about him," Mother Superior says. "I'm sure he'll be back. He loves you too much to stay away, unless you tell him to."

With her fork Belle draws little roads in her mashed potatoes. "That's not what I want. But what I want may be too much."

"What do you want?"

"I want to be with him, but I also want to know he'll never attack another person."

"I don't think that's too much," Bernie mumbles, swirling her spoon in her tea.

"Belle, I understand your concern; it's not unfounded," Mother Superior says. "It's my hope, too, that he will find help to learn to control his anger. I have no doubt that he will try. But whether you return to him or not, Belle, I urge you to forgive him, and to tell him so."

"You saw what he did. And he didn't have the Dark One to lay the blame on. It was all his doing."

"Yes. It's indefensible. I'm not asking you to forgive the sin, but to forgive the sinner. For your sake, so that you can put this behind you and move on. For your sake, so that when it's your turn to be judged, you can be forgiven."

"It's impossible to separate the beating from the one who did the beating."

"I think you can do the impossible, because through God all things are possible. I've come to know you, Belle, and I know that you won't be at peace with yourself until you've made peace with Rumplestiltskin."

Belle can't make eye contact. "It's too hard, Mother Superior."

"That's when you most need to offer forgiveness: when it's the hardest to give."

"I wouldn't even know how to begin."

"You came here for him, didn't you?"

Belle murmurs. "But I don't know where he's gone."

Mother Superior stands. "You have his cell phone number, don't you?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. This magic world! But, Mother Superior, what if he won't talk to me? What if he's angry?"

"He's not angry. He's ashamed."

Belle stands, her meal forgotten. "Mother Superior, may I use your phone?"

* * *

Gold tries to block out the blare of his cell phone, but the ring tone—that of an old-fashioned rotary phone—is particularly annoying at the moment. With a grunt he turns the book he's reading upside down in his lap and grabs the phone from the nightstand. He flips it open and checks the caller ID: he doesn't recognize the number. Probably one of those damned robocalls, even though he's on the National Do Not Call List. "Yes, I'm happy with my current service provider. No, I don't want to buy aluminum siding," he grouses. He tries to concentrate on the book again. The phone rings a half-dozen times, then finally goes into voice mail. He goes back to reading.

* * *

It's sunrise. His drapes are closed but he knows it must be morning because his stomach is growling and his eyes are scratchy. He'd fallen asleep sitting up, the book still open in his hand, and now his wrist aches from the book's weight. Otherwise, he feels pretty good.

He's hungry.

He must be making progress. He hasn't had an appetite in months. He orders room service and jumps into the shower. When he finishes he dresses, bypassing the tie and jacket. He forgoes shaving, too. He resumes his reading until his breakfast arrives. After signing the bill and adding a 20 percent tip, he sits down at the coffee table and with the book in one hand and a fork in the other, dives into his eggs benedict.

As soon as he's finished eating, he hits the bricks, the book still in hand. He's been thinking about this since late last night, so while he doesn't know where he's going, he knows what he's looking for, so he walks. It takes several tries, even though it's past 9 a.m., but he finally finds an open door in a tall, graystone building with arched windows. He steps inside: it's dark and cool, and he's not sure what's expected, so he waits at the threshold.

A woman in a navy blue pantsuit pops up from a pew. "Hi. Sorry, I was just scraping some gum off. It's ok, you can come in and use the chapel if you want."

"Thanks." Gold steps all the way in and sits down in a back pew. He looks around for a few minutes. The woman resumes her gum scraping. "Your first time in our church?" Her voice is muffled as she's still leaning down.

"Yes."

"Well, welcome. Stay as long as you like."

"I was wondering—I don't have an appointment, but would it be possible for me to talk to the minister?"

"Sure." She rises and introduces herself as she approaches. "That would be me. Senior Pastor Annabelle Sherman."

She offers her hand and he shakes it. "***** Gold."

She grins when she spies the book tucked under his arm. He explains, "I was doing some reading and I have a few questions."

"That's one book I'm always glad to talk about," she says. "Would you like to come into my office? I'll plug in the coffee pot."

"Thank you. I'd like that." He follows her.

"Is there a particular topic you'd like to start with?"

He hesitates a moment. "Forgiveness."

"Ah, my personal favorite."

* * *

**A/N. It's time for our Fisher King to go fishing. One more chapter to go!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Arising**

**Chapter 6: The Fisher King**

* * *

"Good afternoon, Ms. Nolan."

Kathryn raises her head from her textbook. In one hand she holds a highlighter; in the other, a ham sandwich. When she looks up, the sun shining in her eyes prevents her from seeing the face of the man standing over her, but she recognizes his distinguishable accent. She uses the ham sandwich as a sunshield, and a leaf of lettuce flops in her face. Flustered, she drops the sandwich in her lap atop the textbook. "Mr. Gold! What are you doing here?"

"I've come to talk to you, if you could spare a few minutes?"

"Sure." She moves a stack of books aside, making room for him on the park bench. "My next class isn't for another hour. How did you know I was here? Please, sit down."

"It's a highly unusual thing for someone to leave Storybrooke to go off to school." He accepts the space she's offered.

She nods in understanding. "Oh. Gossip." Then she gasps. "Oh! Is it David? Is something wrong with David?"

"No, no, he's quite fine. Everything is fine in Storybrooke. The rebuilding effort proceeds, ahead of schedule."

"I heard about the war." Kathryn scowls. "And Regina. How I could have trusted her. . . ."

"The curse." He needn't explain further.

"Yes. David told me about the false memories. It was such an odd thing when the curse broke. I was sitting in Contract Law, just listening to the lecture and taking notes, and all of a sudden, I felt a jolt go through my body. It was like what I'd imagine getting hit by lightning to feel like. My ears were ringing and suddenly all these—well, all I can describe it as is 'waking dreams'—they filled my head, and I looked down at my notes and found I'd written 'Frederick' instead of 'Johnson vs. Agnew.'"

They chuckle, and she continues, "David called me that night to explain what had happened, so I wouldn't think I'd suddenly developed multiple personalities. I guess everyone else had the same experience, all at the same time."

"Most did. How are you dealing with it now, Ms. Nolan?"

"Call me Kathryn. Now that I know David and I never were married, I'm using my maiden name."

"Thank you, Kathryn. Has the adjustment been difficult?"

"I find it an inconvenience. I try not to think about the old world, or my old life. One life at a time"—she gestures to her books—"is about all I can handle."

"You won't go back to your old life, then?"

"No. I know David and Mary Margaret are planning to, but I like what I'm doing. Here, I choose my own fate; no king or magician rules me. I see you haven't gone back either."

"No, I have no desire to."

"But don't you miss your castle, your magic?"

"I was the Dark One. It's not a life to look back on fondly." He takes a deep breath. This explanation will be harder than the one to French; her innocence leaves him no wiggle room in the guilt. "Kathryn, I came to tell you something. . . to tell you the truth about. . .Kathryn, becoming human didn't improve my conduct all that much. Your abduction—I planned it and hired two men to carry it out."

The textbook falls from her lap; she doesn't notice. "You did—what? Why?"

"To tell you why, I also need to tell you that I created the curse."

"I don't understand."

Mindful of her time commitments, he gives her the story as briefly and plainly as he can, and then he provides his explanation for the kidnapping and falsified murder. The doubt on her face tells him she's not entirely buying his explanation, but at least she's listening. He has thought long and hard about whether to tell her all this and risk damaging the new life she's built for herself; he finally decided she would find more peace with the truth than to live with the fear that her abductor might try again.

She gapes at him. "I could turn you in, you know. I could send you to prison."

"Yes. It would be justice."

"Yes, it would. You _kidnapped_ me! You drugged me! Not to mention what you did to Mary Margaret and David." She stands over him, breathing heavily. "I ought to yell for a campus cop right now."

"You'd be well within your rights."

"Damn right I would." She throws her hands into the air. "You should go to jail for a long, long time."

"Yes."

"So—" She places her hands on her hips. "You're not a dunce. Why did you come and tell me this? Do you want to go to jail?"

"No. It would be justice, but. . . I'd like to do some good in this world before it's too late."

"What would you do if I call the police?"

"I'd wait."

"You mean, you wouldn't run?"

He lowers his head. "I have to pay for every wrong I've done; if it's not in this world, then it will be in the next."

"So why did you tell me this?"

"I thought it might bring you some peace to know the truth." He screws up his courage and looks straight at her. "Before you do call the police, though. . . I'm asking your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness? Are you crazy? After what you've done? I ought to have you locked up right now." She suddenly sits down beside him again, perplexed. "Why don't I want to?"

"Maybe forgiving me would do you more good than putting me in jail would."

"And have you walk away scot-free?"

"I'm not free, Kathryn."

She's talking to herself as much as to him. "I don't want you to go to jail. I want you punished, but jail's not going to do either of us any good."

He asks gently, "What would be suitable punishment?"

After a long silence, she finds an answer. "If you spent every minute of the rest of your life being decent to people."

"That's a fair deal. . . if you're offering it?"

She sighs. "I can't hate you, Mr. Gold."

"But can you forgive me?" Gold almost smiles.

"I suppose I can accept those terms. Just—you said you wanted to become a better man. So just go and do it, but not in Boston, all right? Let me put that particular memory behind me."

"Thank you, Kathryn."

She reaches down for her books; he assists her in gathering them. Without another word she rushes off.

* * *

He dreams the Dark One has returned from Hell. The hooded fiend shoves him against a brick wall and shows him the dagger with his name carved indelibly into the blade. "Are you arrogant or just a fool? 'Oooh, forgive me, I've been a bad boy.'" The Dark One giggles, and he sounds just like Rumplestiltskin. "You killed more in your first year than I killed in my lifetime. Just—" the Dark One thrusts the blade into Gold's belly—"like"—he thrusts again—"this." He thrusts one last time.

Gold awakes with a jolt. He's fallen asleep sitting up again, the book in his lap. His head aches. He wonders why these nightmares have been showing up now, when he's trying to be a better man.

* * *

Belle's heart leaps to her throat when she hears slow footfalls in the hallway. She hastily straightens her bedspread and her clothes and smoothes her hair as the knock comes, and then she yanks the door with such vigor that her guest, whose fist is still in motion, loses his balance and stumbles forward. She sweeps forward to assist him.

It's not Rumplestiltskin.

She steps back and tries to hide her disappointment. "Father."

His mouth moves but no words come. She invites him in, offers him the only chair in the room. "It's good to see you again." She plugs in her hotpot and spoons some instant coffee into mugs. While her back is turned and he can't see her expression, she moderates her voice. "Where have you been?"

"I took a job in Boston."

She turns and tries to smile. "Well, as you can see, we survived the war, even without your help."

"She took out half the town, looks like."

"She killed twenty-three."

"I'm sorry."

She realizes he means for that apology to cover a multitude of offenses. Perhaps at another time it would have sufficed, but not today. His inadequacy isn't entirely his fault: he's not Rumplestiltskin, that's all.

"Belle, she lied to me," Moe blurts. "She took twenty of my men to storm the Dark Castle and rescue you. She said it had to be done in the darkness because our people had turned against you. It was the only way to keep you safe from them. She'd make you her lady-in-waiting, she said, the highest position in her court. You'd have jewels, fine clothes; she'd throw balls in your honor and introduce you to young nobles."

"Well, that's not what she did!" Belle interrupts, her fists on her hips. "And once she had taken me, did you ever once try to come and see me, to make sure I was all right?"

"She said it would be best not to. Make a clean break, start a new life."

"She nearly killed me." The hotpot has started to steam. She unplugs it and pours the water into the mugs.

"I didn't know, Belle, I didn't know."

She carries a mug to him and when she's close enough to touch him she sees the deep lines in his face, the longing in his eyes. He's a weak man, always has been, and this is all the apology she will have. It's her choice now: she can live in righteous indignation, confident that every day for the rest of his life he will be punished by her absence and anger; or she can give him what they both need for her to give.

She kneels and rests her hands on his knee, as she used to when he wore ermine and commanded armies. . . and long before that, when she was five and he was perfect in her eyes.

He sets his coffee mug aside and strokes her hair.

* * *

An unfamiliar car is parked behind David's pickup on the street in front of Mary Margaret's apartment. Storybrooke's first tourist? Passersby speculate as they return home for their suppers. It's a brand new glacier blue Tesla Roadster—still has the dealer's plates. The car alone would be enough to attract attention, but for a stranger to have come to town quadrupled the volume of gossip. No one has seen the Tesla's driver, but everyone sure aims to. Those who live in the neighborhood find excuses to stay out in their yards; those who don't live in the area find excuses to drop in on those who do.

Inside, the Tesla driver sits at the kitchen table, as he had done a few times before, but never to such a hostile reception. To his left, at the head of the table, sits David/James/Charming; to his right, sits Emma; directly across from him sits Mary Margaret/Snow. Sitting on the kitchen counter, eating an apple—for the first time in his life—is Henry.

Gold decides he will choose his words carefully, considering that he's sitting within arm's length of two powerful swordspeople and a skilled archer. Gold casts a quick glance about the room for weapons.

As he looks around, noticing the small items that evidence change in this family's living arrangements—a man's jacket on the coat hook, a truck repair manual on the coffee table, the absence of Emma's boxes—Gold wishes he didn't have to do what he's come here to do. He'd much rather just talk like old friends, or at least, old acquaintances, swapping stories of the old days, exchanging family news. Even more, he'd rather ask them how they've done it, how they've managed to form a family out of their very different lives. . . how James and Snow have managed to hold onto each other. But on the day he went out and bargained for the first ingredient for the curse, Rumplestiltskin surrendered his right to have a friendly conversation with this family.

"So, where've you been, Mr. Gold?" Emma asks. "Bernie says you just took off without saying anything to anyone."

"I had some urgent—" No, he didn't come here to avoid questions. He's got to be plainspoken from the start, so they'll know him to be sincere. "At first I just took off. I thought I'd get out of town to think for a few days. But I ended up in Boston and went looking for Moe French."

"Yeah, I saw he was back in town. He was driving your car. I pulled him over; thought he'd stolen it. But he said you gave it to him, had your signature on the title." Emma waits for confirmation.

"That's correct."

"You gave him a car?" James is amazed.

"What was your price?" Snow wonders.

Gold shakes his head. "I'm the one who owed him." He glances at Emma. "The 'her' who needed help—it was Belle. I finally did what I should've done: I asked. And I found out it wasn't his fault; it was Regina's. . . and mine."

Emma understands. "I'm glad you worked things out."

"That's why I came back; I have a lot of people I need to work things out with."

"Starting with us?" Emma smiles.

"If you'll allow me."

Snow is catching on. "You're here to apologize." A dozen emotions flash across her unguarded face.

"Yes."

"Rumplestiltskin, the king of the con men," James barks. "I don't have any interest in hearing you mangle the truth."

"You know about half of my crimes against your family," Gold replies. "I came to tell you about the other half."

Emma is studying him closely. She makes a quick decision. "I'm going to hear him out. My BS detector says he's on the level."

James grunts. "He wants something. He's just going to manipulate you until you give it to him."

"Do you want something, Rumplestiltskin?" Snow asks.

He glances at Emma, hoping she'll remember. "Forgiveness, if you can give it; tolerance, if you can't."

"Let's hear your story," Emma says.

"Some parts of it, you may not want Henry to be subjected to."

"I know more than you think I do," the boy objects.

"I do owe you an apology too, Henry, just not quite this one. If you and your mother will permit me, I'd like to tell you about it one day, over ice cream."

Henry considers this. Of course he doesn't want to miss out on tonight's action, but the opportunity to have unfettered access to the man who was once the most powerful mage on the planet is mighty tempting. His mother raises an eyebrow; she'll allow him input but of course the final decision will be hers. Henry can tell she's going to send him to his room no matter what he says, so he might as well score some points for cooperation—and clinch that ice cream. He slides down from the counter. "Good night, Mom." He gives Emma and Snow a peck on the cheek before scampering.

"He has his grandfather's charm," Gold murmurs to Emma.

James sits back in his chair. "Don't try to get on my good side, Gold."

"Chill out, James," Snow advises. "He earned the right to be heard, out on that battlefield."

"Well, let's go into the living room and get comfortable, then." James rises. "I reckon it's going to be a long night."

When they've resettled, Gold begins his tale. He's given a lot of thought about how much to share; he's decided that nothing less than full disclosure is what he owes them, so he begins with Bae. That's where Rumplestiltskin's story must always begin and end.

He describes the life Bae was born into, so vastly different from Snow's and Emma's, but not so far afield from James'. Less than half a day old, Bae lost his father to war—in many ways, lost him forever, for Rumplestiltskin left as the town cripple but came back as the town coward, and that made him ripe for the Dark One's picking.

Gold leads them through his transformation, from the first second a poor spinner realized that with a snap of his fingers, he could provide for every single one of his son's needs and desires, that he could walk onto a battlefield unscathed and with a wave of his hand compel the combatants to drop their weapons and return to their homes. From those first heady days of power to the moment when he realized the goodness in his soul was being eclipsed by power-lust, greed, paranoia and, most irresistibly, the hunger for revenge, Gold tells them the full story so they will have the context from which to judge him.

And then he describes the loss of Bae, and the utter panic when he realized that not only could he no longer protect his son, but that he'd thrown him, alone, uniformed, into a foreign world, the panic that took such deep and strong root that it can't be shaken 250 years later, the panic that branched out into con games, killing and arson, and the creation of the curse that tore families apart.

In the interest of full disclosure, he gives himself the little credit he's due: in his deals, he never lied, never cheated; he tried to give sufficient warning of the price of magic, but most of his buyers wouldn't listen, including a sad young woman who sought a cure for her broken heart and a poverty-stricken shepherd who sold himself to a king.

"One of the gifts and the burdens of the Dark curse," he explains, "is the ability to see some aspects of the future. Never the future of those I loved, or you can be sure Bae and Belle would be with me today, nor my own future. But I could see yours, Snow White: from the moment you as an infant first smiled at your mother, I knew you were marked as true love's daughter, destined to find James, to _always_ find James. The power of your love would be far stronger than anything magic could produce, and so the product of that love could break any curse I could create. So when I created the curse that would bring us here and position me to find Bae, I tapped into your magic as the antidote to my own. Through the deals I made with each of you, I manipulated you to make certain that you would keep finding each other so that your love would flourish and the curse breaker would be born. . . and her son, who will one day lead the people away from the corrupting forces of magic and toward a reliance on love."

"Henry will do all that?" Snow muses. She thinks this over and decides. "Yes, I remember the potion that I asked you for: in the end, it made me value the very thing I'd tried to reject. And the arrow that you promised would hit its mark—it didn't do what I wanted, but it did what I needed. Just think, if I hadn't drunk that potion—if you hadn't given me that potion or that arrow, I never would have found James."

"And there'd be no me or Henry," Emma adds.

"All right, so conning me into pretending to be a dragon-slaying prince maybe wasn't the worst thing you've done," James admits. "But there are plenty of others."

"You're right. The worst of it is yet to come. A year ago, I did something horrible to your family. I'm going to ask that you give me a chance to explain it in full, not that I'm trying to wriggle out of any of the blame—I deserve it all—but so that you'll have the whole truth."

He tells them then about his deal with Regina that led to Kathryn's abduction and Mary Margaret's murder charge. He explains, as he did for Belle, that he knew how this family would suffer because of his scheme, but he also knew the charges would be dismissed; he had believed then that only the most drastic of events would develop Emma into the savior, tested and found true, feet firmly planted on the thin line between love and law, confident and strong—ready to conquer Regina.

James snorts. "What a crock." He leans forward and glares at Gold. "Your scheme could have gotten Mary Margaret the death sentence."

"You weren't listening, James," Emma corrects him. "It never would've gone to trial. What it did do was put Mary Margaret in hell."

"And pulled David and me apart," Snow says thoughtfully.

"'David' is a fictional character created by Regina," Gold points out.

"Then—so am I," Snow realizes. "And the life I lived for twenty-eight years was—"

"Scripted." Gold supplies. "'Mary Margaret' and 'David' and 'Kathryn' were the prisons Regina kept you in, to keep you apart and unhappy. It's Snow and James and Abigail and Frederick who are real, whose love transcends the lies."

Something in Snow's eyes changes and she looks at James as if seeing him for the first time, then she looks at Gold. He can see he's taken away some of the guilt she's felt for her "affair" with David.

"Wow." Emma shakes her head to clear it. "I dunno, Gold. . ."

"Tell me, Emma, how did you feel when the DNA test results came in?"

"I felt like hell, what do you suppose?"

"Like a member of your family had been set up?"

"Yeah, sure."

"And what did you do after that?"

She sniffs. "Well, I didn't just sit around waiting for you. I went after Regina."

She recognizes the expression on his face: it's the same one he wore when he presenter her with her father's sword. "Spoken like a true fighter," Gold says softly. He turns to Snow. "And how did you feel when Emma rescued you from the Mad Hatter?"

"She was amazing. Smart and strong, courageous—"

"A hero."

"A hero. And then she—" Snow blinks back a tear. "She gave me the keys to her car. She let it be my choice because—"

"Because I loved you and believed in you, just like you believed in me."

Snow grasps Emma's hand and squeezes. "Because we're family."

"That's great, but what's he got to do with it?" James reminds them. "Emma, this guy's pure evil and I don't think you should let him anywhere near Henry. He can't be trusted."

"Maybe, maybe not," Emma says, "but Henry can be." She sits back in her chair to think.

"Well, that's what I came to say. I truly apologize for all the pain my schemes caused." He stands and turns toward the door.

"Rumplestiltskin!" Snow calls after him. He pauses. "Did you ever find your son?"

He doesn't know quite how to answer that, so he says nothing.

"I'm sorry," she says. "For everything."

He smiles. "Thank you, Snow White."

Emma accompanies him to the door. As she holds it open, she touches his arm. "Mr. Gold, welcome back."

* * *

In the privacy of the Tesla with its tinted windows, Gold rests his forehead against the steering wheel. Then, aware the neighbors are watching, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.

* * *

"Yeah, I'm sure it was him," Dopey tells Ruby; he's been pursuing the restaurant owner for months and he hopes this will impress her. "I mean, he's cut his hair and he was driving one of those foreign hybrids, and he was dressed like he did during the war, you know, t-shirt and jeans and denim jacket. But it was him."

Ruby leaves the man standing at the counter. She runs across the street to the inn and shouts up the stairs for Belle.

Belle comes running. She hasn't learned to drive yet, so Ruby agrees to take her, and the two women jump into Ruby's Camaro. As they rip down Main Street, Ruby suggests, "Call him."

Belle slaps her forehead. Her purse, containing the phone, is lying on her bed at the inn. "I'm just not used to purses," she moans.

Ruby shrugs and tosses her purse at Belle. "Here, use my phone."

Belle dials—over and over. No one picks up.

They scour the town, asking questions of pedestrians; hours later, Ruby apologizes and says she has to get back to the diner. As she drops Belle off at the inn, she advises, "Keep your phone turned on and don't go anywhere. Maybe he'll come looking for you."

* * *

Gold stops at Clark's store for some supplies.

"Good to see you up and around," Sneezy greets him and begins to ring up his purchases: batteries, tea, honey, several cans of soup and veggies, bread and crackers.

Inwardly Gold sighs; he supposes he'll need to apologize to the seven dwarves too, but not today. He's exhausted. It's not every day a guy buys a hundred thousand dollar car and drives across a state to apologize to Price Charming and Snow White.

"Looks like you're back to stay a while," Sneezy comments.

He's fishing for information. Gold doesn't answer. He merely mumbles a goodbye as Sneezy hands him the grocery bag.

* * *

It's twilight when Gold arrives at his cabin. His phone has been ringing most of the way up here: those damned robocalls again. He sets the phone on vibrate and tosses it in the backseat. It's been a long, long day.

He locates the fuse box and turns the electricity on. He carries in a half-dozen logs from the stack on the porch. It's a warm night and he does have a small stove that he could heat his supper on, but he wants a fire anyway. He builds the fire, then opens the windows to allow the night air in. In the distance he can hear night birds and frogs, and an occasional splash as a fish jumps in the river behind his cabin. He pours soup into a pan and water into a pot and sets these by the fire to heat.

Finally, he can relax. As the scent of chicken soup fills the cabin, he yanks off his shoes and his shirt and drops into the wooden rocking chair he keeps near the fireplace. His head in his hands, he closes his eyes.

He drifts off, dreaming Bae has transformed into a snail. . .

* * *

When he awakes he feels worse than before. He makes a cup of tea and eats his soup directly from the pan. He leaves the dishes on the counter for tomorrow and climbs into bed. At sunrise he takes down the fishing pole from its hooks above the mantel and indulges in his secret pastime.

"_The black-capped chickadee is the state bird of Maine. The common blue jay is a year-round resident of Maine."_

Gold jerks out of his reverie and shifts around.

"_Maine has 60 lighthouses. Trout, salmon, small-mouthed bass and perch are abundant in Maine's 6,000 lakes and ponds." _Mephistopheles emerges from the forest. He's wearing a fraternity jacket and a crown of ivy, and as always, he carries a beer. He chuckles. "Good to see you on your feet again, Rump. So which one you after: trout, salmon, bass or perch?"

Gold shifts his body back toward the river but keeps a watch out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't answer.

"How rude of me." Mephistopheles plops down beside the former imp. "Barging in without an invitation, and I didn't even bring a courtesy gift. How about a beer, Rump?"

"Beat it, Mephistopheles."

"No way, Jose. I know you're feeling down in the dumps—hey, that's funny: Rump's in the dumps. Anyway, you're feeling like you let me down, hangin' out with the competition like you've been, but I'll forgive you. Just say 'please.'" The devil grins expectantly.

"I said 'beat it' and I meant it. I'm done with you." Gold notices the crickets have stopped chirping and the birds have flown away.

The devil clasps a hand to his chest. "Aw, now, Rump, I'm crushed. You had a weekend fling and now you're walkin' out on a 250-year relationship? I understand; He can be persuasive. So you cheated a little, but I'll take you back. Hell, it's more fun this way."

When Gold doesn't answer, the devil presses, "Check it out. I tuned in to that little mea culpa session you had last night with Ms. Pure-as-the-Driven and her King of Nothing." He guffaws. "Some gall they have! A common highwaywoman and her con man boyfriend, going around killing innocent trolls and ogres, and they got the nerve to call their daughter 'the savior'?! Not to mention how they treated you, the most powerful mage in the—oh, wait, I forgot. You don't have your powers any more, do you? Gave them away to that 'savior.' Well, we all do stupid crap when we're drunk. All right, all right, you don't have to beg: I'll give your magic back to you." He raises his hand and it begins to glow like an orange ember. "'We can rebuild him, better, stronger, faster than he was before.'" He sniggers. "Why don't they make tv shows like that any more? Aw, well, hell. Hold onto your pants, Rump: here comes the magic."

Gold looks the devil square in the eye. "No."

"Say what?" Mephistopheles squeaks.

"I said no."

"Playing hard to get, huh? You want to be courted?"

Gold drops his fishing pole and rises. "I'll make a deal with you, Meph."

The devil rubs his hands together in anticipation and burns himself on his own magic. "Oww oww oww." He waves his hands to cool them. "A deal? You know I loves me some deal-makin', Rump. Deal away."

Gold folds his arms. "You beat it. Permanently. Leave me alone, leave Belle alone, leave Regina alone, leave this town alone. In fact, just leave the entire state of Maine alone."

The devil scowls. "You serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"And what do I get out of it?"

"I won't get in that cabin and fetch my cane."

"You'll come crawlin'." The devil vanishes, but his voice lingers. "You'll come crawlin' back, dearie."

Gold sits down on the riverbank again and picks up his fishing pole. "Like hell I will."

* * *

Psychiatrists seldom make house calls, especially when that house is a rustic cabin located deep in a forest outside of town. But Archie/Jiminy is not a typical psychiatrist, and he's been waiting a long time for this call, so when Gold asks him to come, he jumps into his Civic and, taking driving directions over the phone, manages after several false starts to find the cabin. As instructed, he's dressed down for the occasion, exchanging his suit and tie for his golf outfit.

When he arrives, the first thing he notices is that the cabin isn't as rustic as he'd imagined. In fact, it's rather large and solidly built, and there's electricity and indoor plumbing, an oak dining set, a queen-size bed—

And a brand-new, hundred-thousand-dollar, glacier blue Tesla Roadster in the drive.

And coming up a path from the river, Mr. Gold, in work boots, faded jeans, a Conan the Librarian t-shirt, a baseball cap—and an unequivocal smile. He rubs his hands on his jeans before greeting Archie with a handshake.

If Archie had any doubts about the reality of the situation, he doesn't any more: it's no con, Mr. Gold actually smells fishy.

"Thank you for coming out here," Gold says. His accent is a bit thicker than usual. "I'm sorry for dragging you out—"

"No, it's fine." Archie tilts his head back, taking it all in: the blue sky, the poplar and maple trees, the birds singing, the clean, crisp air. He breathes in deeply. "This is a great place to hold a session."

"Would you like to do a little fishing while we talk?"

Archie's mouth twitches. "I—I've never been fishing before," he realizes.

Gold pauses, remembering Jiminy's parents: of course they'd never taken him fishing. But then, neither had Rumple's. Fishing had come to him late in life, after he'd become the Dark One and had, in a moment of weakness, agreed to trade a healing potion for a fishing pole. He'd brought it back for Bae as a naming day gift, and they'd made frequent trips to the lakes and rivers of Fairytale Land. Distance was no object; Rumple would snap his fingers and they'd arrive, and even Bae had to admit he didn't mind the magic, as long as the fishing was real.

"Let's go fishin'," Gold suggests.

After Archie has gone, Gold carries their catch—three perch—to his work table at the back of the cabin. He always cleans fish here, outside, and tosses the guts into the forest for a den of gray foxes he's spotted nearby. When he's finished his work and has cleaned up, he drags his rocking chair out to the porch and just sits. Just sits.

* * *

He loses track of the days. They don't matter.

Archie comes again and gives him a brief physical. "This is just what you need. Your blood pressure's normal. Your wounds have healed. By the way, we finally have a physician in town, so when you get back you should make an appointment."

"Why? I trust you."

"Thanks, ****." Archie is genuinely touched. "But I'm giving up that part of my practice. Going back to what I do best."

They talk about Gold's nightmares, which are coming more frequently. Archie teaches him some visualization techniques and encourages him to write the dreams down. "But I think it's a good sign. Your conscience has woke up; it's telling you you still have work to do."

They talk about Belle. Gold watches Archie struggle at these times; the temptation to report on Belle's welfare is hard to resist, but prudently Archie always comes down on the side of professional ethics. He's at peace with this gag rule because he can see his patients are healing little by little.

* * *

One day when Archie has come to fish and talk, Gold says, "I'm going back tomorrow."

Archie feels a tug on his line. As he reels the perch in, he asks, "Will you go back to your house?"

"For the time being. I think I'll sell it eventually. I never liked that house."

"Why did you—" And then Archie bites his tongue, remembering: Gold hadn't chosen his house or anything else about his Storybrooke identity. Regina had. "Henry's gone over to mow the lawn."

Gold grins. "I still owe him an ice cream. And an apology."

"He forgave you already."

"I think I'll go see Regina."

Archie throws his freshly baited line back into the water. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"For her or for me?"

"You. She won't remember you."

"Then this apology will be just for me."

"Is there. . . " Archie hesitates; he's on the borderline here. "Is there anyone else you'd like to talk to?"

Gold chuckles. "You're fishin', Archie. But yeah, if she'll talk to me."

"That could be good for both of you."

"We never had a proper goodbye."

Archie swallows hard. "Is that what you want, ****? What you hope for?"

Gold shrugs. "All I hope for is that she'll talk to me."

* * *

In the morning he keeps his word. His first stop is the home of Nora and Randolph Garrett, Henry's former nanny and Regina's former butler, respectively—and now Gina's foster parents. He asks their permission to speak to Gina. He finds her in the den, studying for a chemistry exam; she's chewed her pencil in two and is now gnawing on her lip.

"I hate chem!" she shouts, and he tries not to smile; potions were never Regina's strong suit.

It gives him an idea. He introduces himself as an old friend of Nora's who just happens to have worked as a chemist before coming to Storybrooke. Before he's had a chance to give his name, she's pleading with him to tutor her, _please please please_, because if she doesn't pass chem she'll never get into the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, and if she doesn't get into MCAD, she'll never become a famous fashion designer.

"That's your dream, is it?" he asks.

"Like Stella McCartney," she says. "Except edgier, more rock 'n' roll, you know?"

"I'll help you, Gina," he agrees. "I'll come back this evening after dinner, and we'll begin."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr.—" She waits for him to supply his name. When he does, she doesn't blink. She truly has no memory of him.

As she runs out to catch the school bus, he moves along to his next stop: the bank. The VP comes out from her glass office to greet him personally; he is, of course, her biggest depositor. She invites him into her office. "I've been trying to reach you," she says. "I wanted to confirm a very large purchase that was made against your account nineteen days ago."

"It's valid," he nods.

"It's just. . . I was concerned because of the size of the withdrawal and the nature of the purchase. An imported car. It just didn't seem like the sort of thing you'd buy."

"Mid-life crisis," he winks at her.

"Ohhh." Her voice drains.

"I've come to make some additional large purchases. College trust funds for three worthy children from families of lesser means."

* * *

He drops into the sheriff's office to ask Emma's permission to take Henry for ice cream after school. Emma grants the permission and adds, "I'll let you two go alone. I have some paperwork to take care of."

He realizes what she's really saying is _I trust you_ _with my son_. It's the best gift he's been given in years. He answers, "I'll limit his consumption to one scoop so he won't spoil his supper." What he's really saying is _Thank you_._ I won't let you down_.

Emma says, "Hey, don't feel bad about James. He'll come around."

Gold notices she hasn't started calling her parents "Mom" or "Dad" yet, but she's using their Fairytale names. Their situation must be somewhat awkward. They may never form a traditional family, but he's certain they will forge something new. As for James, despite Emma's caution, it does bother him; in Fairytale Land, he'd thought their relationship to be friendlier, bordering on avuncular. Right up until James threw Rumplestiltskin into prison. He's talked to Archie about this, and the psychiatrist had suggested, in typical Archie fashion, "Why don't you talk to him?"

So Gold has an idea. "Maybe I'll invite him to go fishin'."

Emma bubbles with laughter. "Yeah, you do that. Hey, you remember those promises you made when I came to see you a couple of months back? Well, it's time to—" she nudges him with an elbow—"fish or cut bait. The clean-up's over and we're in the planning stages for rebuilding. There's kind of a tussle going on between August and Marco over big box stores. The council really needs some direction from someone who knows how to build a town. It's time to get to work, Mr. Gold."

He thinks about it. "I'm not really a City Planner, you know."

"You'll fit right in. James isn't really a mayor and I'm not really a sheriff. Council meeting's Monday at seven p.m. in the library."

"I'll be there."

"Good." She leans back on the edge of her desk.

"I saw a moving van on Pine Street this morning."

"Our first new family," she boasts. "The Harrisons. He's a bus driver; she's a dental assistant. They have twin girls."

"I thought I saw a swing set being erected. With more families moving in. . . ." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Emma, have you ever heard of an organization called Court-Appointed Special Advocates?"

"I think so. Something about helping kids who are in legal trouble?"

"Kids who are in the legal system for any reason: neglected kids, abused kids, foster kids. The nearest CASA is in Bangor. I had a chat with the ED of the Boston CASA about opening a chapter here."

"That sounds like a good idea, Mr. Gold. I'd be glad to help. Now about your other promise." She shows him her hands. "I've been having these odd prickly feelings in my fingers, like cactus spikes. . . ."

He touches her palms. His body immediately reacts, his cells awakening and hungering for the magic as he imagines a recovering addict's body would react to the proximity of its drug of choice. He'll have to be careful, discuss this with Archie. "It's the magic wanting to be released."

"'Wanting.' You mean it has a mind of its own?"

"Think of it as a puppy that hasn't been paper trained yet."

"So paper train me." And they both burst out laughing.

* * *

He's waiting at the bus stop when school lets out. Henry comes out, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his shoelaces untied—but then, that's the fashion these days. He's chatting with Paige. He's grown about an inch this year, Gold notices; the baby fat has left his cheeks.

Gold remembers: "_Hello, Henry. I'm Mr. Gold. I'll be looking out for you, from a distance._"

Gold also remembers: Bae is 42 now. Bae should be standing here, waiting for his own eleven-year-old son to get out of school. But Rumplestiltskin's cowardice robbed him of that experience.

"Hello, Mr. Gold. Are we going for that ice cream now?" There's no surprise in Henry's voice; he fully expected Gold would come because Gold had promised.

"Unless you have other plans?" Gold glances meaningfully at Paige.

The two kids—he can't think of them as children any more; they're almost as tall as he is and in some ways, more mature—shake their heads and say goodbye to each other. Henry then gives his full attention to Gold. "Ruby's or Sarah's?"

"Let's go gourmet, shall we?" Gold leads the way to the Tesla. A little nostalgia stabs at him: he has the urge to take Henry's hand, but the boy is too old for that.

"Wow! Hey, how fast will this go? Have you opened her up on the highway yet?" Henry slides into the Tesla and inspects the instrument panel. "Is the engine running? I can't hear a thing but I saw you turn the key in the ignition. Hey, Mr. Gold, here's your cell. It was in the back seat. Battery's dead. You got an adapter? I'll plug it into the dash and charge it up for you. I bet you got like a gazillion messages."

Yes, the boy is too old for hand-holding, but a few years from now, a driving lesson, perhaps?

As for his mother's restriction of one scoop only, Henry follows the letter of the law, but he piles on enough sprinkles, Gummy Bears, cocoanut shavings and hot fudge to make his dessert an entrée. Henry's teetering mountain of sugar puts the brakes on Gold's appetite for ice cream, so he selects a sherbet. Henry digs in even before they make it to a wrought-iron table and sit down. Gold intends to give him time to finish eating before launching into the topic of the day, but Henry can't wait for that either. Around a mouthful of fudge, Henry asks, "So Mr. Gold, you were gonna tell me about the curse and my mom and everything."

"It's a long and complicated story, Henry, and a lot of it probably would bore you, so how about if you ask me what you want to know, and then I'll know which parts of the story to tell you?"

Gold steels himself for a pummeling of ethical questions, because Henry, despite his raising by Regina—or perhaps because of it—thinks a lot about right and wrong. Gold also prepares for a stream of practical questions, because Henry is a kid and is fascinated by magic. But Henry throws him for a loop. He cocks his head to the side in a way that reminds Gold of Mary Margaret and he suggests, "Tell me about Baelfire."

So Gold does. When, an hour later, he drops Henry off at Kathryn and David's old place, now Emma's, he realizes he's forgotten to make his apology to Henry. Or maybe he has, in a Henry kind of way.

* * *

He wants to speak to Belle, but his courage flags. His fifth trip of the day is made to the convent.

"Mr. Gold!" Bernie throws her arms around him before realizing she's just hugged the meanest man in town. "Oh, sorry, it's just that we've been worried."

"Thank you, Sister. Your concern means a lot to me."

She looks at him askance, but before she can say more, Mother Superior rushes in. She's in her gardening clothes; the cuffs of her jeans are crusted with mud from last night's rain. She reaches a hand out, then realizes she's holding a weeder; she passes it to her left hand so she can offer a handshake. "Mr. Gold, it's so good to see you. Are you well? You're looking well."

"I'm well, Mother Superior." He chuckles. "And you?"

"I'm well too. The last of our patients went home on Tuesday, so Bernie and I have been giving the place a thorough cleaning. We've had good news: Astrid and Leroy will be returning from Fairyland Land soon. They decided they prefer the modern world."

"Will she return to the convent?"

"No. She's found her calling with Leroy. She'll continue to help out here from time to time, but she'll be going to work at Ruby's. Leroy will resume his former occupation." She takes his arm. "Would you like to come out to the garden, ****? Everything is in full bloom. I was just pulling weeds. Looks like we'll have a good tomato crop this year." She leads him out the back as Bernie heads for the kitchen to put the coffee on.

"Mother Superior, may I help?"

"Certainly!" Mother Superior places her hands on her hips as she surveys her garden. "Astrid was the one with the green thumb, so I'm glad to have any help I can get. Do you have a garden of your own?"

"Not here." He kneels down examine the soil. "At the Dark Castle, I grew medicinal herbs. I found it more productive sometimes than my work in the lab. I grew—"

"Rumplestiltskin!"

A shout rolls across the garden. He clambers to his feet only to stumble backwards as a blur of yellow runs him down. "Rumplestiltskin!" Her arms slide around his neck and his arms slide around her waist as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Belle!" He kisses her without asking permission because he's suddenly forgotten she doesn't belong to him any more, and she kisses him back because she suddenly remembers she does.

Mother Superior discreetly finds something to do in the tool shed.

"You're all right," Belle sighs in relief. "I thought you were in a hospital somewhere, or worse. You disappeared without telling anyone."

"There was no one to tell, I thought. No one who'd notice until it was time to pay the rent."

"You didn't call, didn't answer your phone."

"You tried to call me? I didn't realize." His hands move into her hair and he looks into her eyes. "Belle, I love you, Belle. I understand why you can't trust me, and if I can never be with you again, I understand that too, but before I let you go, please, will you forgive me?"

"Always."

"For everything?"

"For everything. But Rumplestiltskin, will you forgive me for running away when you needed me?"

He laughs. "Always and for everything."

She rests her head on his chest. "Rumplestiltskin, don't let me go. Let me stay right here with you."

"Are you sure, Belle? You know the kind of man I am."

"Yes. I know the kind of man you are. A man, not a monster."

"A difficult man to love."

"No." She raises her head to meet his eyes. "Difficult to understand, but not difficult to love."

* * *

**A/N. Phew. Rumple/Gold sure has a lot to make up for. I've seen a lot of discussion about his reformation; while many fans feel he will be redeemed, the common thought seems to be that he'll have to die to do it. To see Rumple go out as a self-sacrificing hero would be a fine thing, but personally, I'd rather have him alive and struggling to beat down his demons. I think he could do the next generation of Storybrookers more good as a living example of reform than as a name on a public building. **

**In trying to get into Gold's head and understand the reasons behind his crimes, I had to grasp at some flimsy straws, especially in my explanation of the Kathryn murder scheme. I felt more confident about my understanding of Rumple's motives, but I couldn't bring Rumple/Gold to the point of change without walking him through his Storybrooke past too. **

**There are a couple of loose ends I've left untied, because a story that's too tidy, particularly when the main character has undergone a transformation, can seem Pollyanna. But there's one important loose thread in "Arising" that I haven't left undone: for a resolution to the Bae story, please check out "Saved by Zero." (And if you'd like to read about the Regina War, it's in "Unbroken.")**

**Oh, one last thing: I felt kind of guilty about allowing my newly reformed Gold spend a 100K on a car, when he could've used that money to do something noble, like rebuild the hospital. Once I started looking at photos of the Tesla, though, I just couldn't resist. It's just the rockin' kind of car Rumple would love, but being both imported and cutting-edge, Gold would love it too. So please forgive my indulging Gold in this extravagance.**

**So, did you like "Arising"? Drop me a comment and let me know!**


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